Unwilling Eurydice
by Katta
Summary: In Doyle's own words: ”And that’s the story of my glorious resurrection, which I made a mess of as usual.” SLASH!
1.

UNWILLING EURYDICE  
  
You may know the story. Orpheus and Eurydice are in love, but she dies and he decides to get her back. He plays beautiful mourning music to the gods, and they love it so much they agree to his request -- as long as he doesn't look back at his girl before they have entered the world of the living. What do you know, he does, and loses her forever.  
Then there's the opera version, the happy ending where the gods forgive him his little mistake. As Salman Rushdie put it, what's one little peek?.  
There is just one thing I would like to know, one question that hasn't been answered yet. How did Eurydice feel about being traded in for a good tune? Was she as happy to be brought back as Orpheus, the composer, the librettist and the audience were, or was she -- unwilling?  
  
**********  
  
"My doctor says that I have a malformed public-duty gland and a natural deficiency in moral fibre, and that I am therefore excused from saving Universes."   
-Ford Prefect  
  
**********  
  
Cordelia brought in the newspaper, holding it under her arm while she opened the door, a cappuccino in her other hand. The others were sitting in the lobby, and she threw them an annoyed glance.  
I count no less than three guys in here, she complained, and not a single one of you will give me a hand. Fine heroes you are.  
Wesley immediately got up and took the paper that was beginning to slide down from under her elbow.  
Better, but still not good. She closed the door and sat down with them, leaning her head towards the back of the sofa.  
Well, maybe we're busy, Gunn pointed out.  
Busy? Yeah, right. Like something majorly interesting has come up while I was out buying my cappu. Face it, we haven't had anything happen at all since that second-rate demon trying to sell girls to nightclubs. And the police got him before we did. Cordelia sighed. Of course, they would arrest him and hand him over to the caring hands of those Wolfram and Hart leeches.  
And the leeches got him loose, Wesley commented.  
They all turned to stare at him, and he handed Cordelia the newspaper, tapping on an article.  
Take a look.  
Angel snatched the newspaper from Cordelia's hands, ignoring her protests.  
'Elmore Sierk found innocent of all charges', he read out loud.   
Hey, if he starts sedating and selling people again you could always track him down and kill him, Gunn said.  
Angel admitted. I just feel like I've been wasting enough time on this schmuck already.  
Not to mention that we're not likely to get p...  
Cordelia stopped midsentence with a moan, and curled up into a ball. Angel caught her in his arms until her breathing eased and her body relaxed. Finally, she looked up, and her mouth twisted a little.  
Weird, much? she whispered.  
What did you see?  
A frown formed on her face. That guy, she said, waving at the newspaper. And a bunch of suits ripping his guts out.  
Wesley's eyebrows flew up. Are you sure it wasn't his tentacles? he asked. That breed of demons have tentacles protruding from their sides.  
Cordy said. Well, whatever it was, he didn't seem to appreciate the treatment. Oh, and first they had dinner at the Ritz-Carlton in Pasadena.  
Let me get this straight, Angel said. You saw a slave-trading demon being hurt by some guys in suits after having dinner at the Ritz with them?  
That's what I said, isn't it? Cordelia snapped. She was beginning to feel better, but she still had a lingering headache.  
Gunn snorted. Who gives you those visions, David Lynch?  
Angel shrugged. It was strange, he had to agree on that. And the fact that a demon he had been this close to killing was apparently now up for protection wasn't the least strange thing about it. But he couldn't argue with a vision. If the PTB wanted him saved, that was his job for tonight.  
  
**********  
  
I still can't believe we're doing this, Gunn complained as they all stepped out of the Angelmobile. If they want to kill this guy, I say good riddance!  
Angel didn't reply, mostly because he agreed. Stay here, he ordered the others before he moved up to the dining room entrance. From where he was standing he couldn't see the customers well enough to determine if one of them was Sierk, so he tried to get a little bit closer. A very polite head waiter stopped him.  
I'm sorry sir, but you need a jacket and tie.  
Angel looked up, not quite comprehending what the man was saying. At some level, he obviously realized that the people eating in there weren't dressed the way he was, but he failed to see any connection between that and the head waiter's peculiar comment.  
Excuse me. Cordelia was suddenly at his side. We need to find a good friend who is eating here. It's quite an emergency and will only take a minute, can't you let me take a peek?  
She smiled at the head waiter and he gave her an appreciative look before nodding and letting her in. Nobody, with the possible exception of Phantom Dennis, would ever find Cordelia improperly dressed anywhere.  
Angel leaned against the wall and waited for Cordelia to come back. She soon did.  
she chattered brightly. Our friend was there, and his friends were there too, and they seemed to be in a friendly mode. Is there anything I should say? Do?  
Angel grasped that she was trying to hold up the deception she had told the waiter.  
No, it's okay, I think we'll just wait outside for our friends to stop eating. Thank you very much for your help, he told the waiter and gently shoved Cordelia outside.  
she asked, when they got closer to the car.  
I don't want to start a fight in there. And I really don't want *you* to start a fight in there.  
Like I would, with that creep. He's not even scary, you know. I mean, if he tried to sell *me* somewhere, it's not as if I couldn't get free.  
Angel didn't reply, just sat down in the car. Gunn leaned forward.  
Were they there?  
Yeah. We'll wait until they leave.  
What if there's a back door?  
Angel thought about that. If the people in there were having a casual dinner there wasn't really a reason for them to leave through the back door. On the other hand, people seen in visions were usually not up to any good, and people not up to any good had all the reason in the world to leave through the back door.  
Okay. You go look.  
It took half an hour before the men left the building -- through the front door. Angel, Cordy and Wesley stepped out of the car and while the latter two walked slowly along the road, pretending to be in deep conversation, Angel followed the suits from a closer distance, although not close enough to seem suspicious. He couldn't hear what they were talking about but it seemed rather official, which was strange because these fellows were definitely out of Sierk's league. In spite of his wealth, and whichever species he posed to be, he was really nothing more than a sleazy two-bit crook. The suits were another type altogether. If they had been younger and less cold, they would have been the sort of successful men Cordelia dreamed of snagging. And no matter how human they were, they were more genuinely scary than Sierk could ever hope to be.  
They were walking into the alley behind the hotel, next to the area where the homeless people gathered around their fire. Not a good place to do business with scary men; not if you expected to come out alive. Angel saw Sierk bending down towards his shoe. A glance passed between two of the suits, and Angel rushed forward just as one of them brought out a knife.  
Angel had assumed that the men would not be prepared for an attack, and in that respect he had been right. His mistake had been in also assuming that they wouldn't know what to do when he did attack. Obviously these guys were used to vampires. Once they were past their initial surprise his game face, instead of startling them, just told them how to put up a fight.  
Still, these were humans and should have been easily resisted, especially since Gunn and the others quickly caught on and joined in the fight. Should have been. When the suit holding the knife became aware of the danger, he quickly changed his target. With the force behind that throw, it was fortunate that Angel's reflexes were so fast, or he would have been beheaded within seconds. Now, he simply ducked, and the knife whirled by him. There was an outraged cry from the bums, but Angel had no time to check if they were alright. He thought they were; the thud of the knife hadn't sounded like it hit home in flesh. His attention was fully on the suit, and he flung the man into a wall, reluctant to kill him but not apt to mourn if the impact itself did the trick.  
Gunn was doing pretty well in the battle, while the others were more uncomfortable. They were used to stakes and crosses, and although the former would still do the trick, it was quite a difference plunging it into a living heart.  
Angel wasn't prepared for holy water. It wasn't something people are supposed to carry around in their pockets, unless they were slayerettes. He closed his eyes as the corrosive substance splashed in his face, but they still felt like they were on fire and the water dripping down his burning skin made opening them again an impossibility. It made it a lot harder to fight, and he couldn't give himself the luxury of being careful; when the next person attacked, he took a firm grip around the neck and felt it crack under his hands. From the noises around him he knew that his friends were still alive and kicking ass, but the smell of blood wasn't only human anymore. The suits had gotten to the demon, how bad was impossible to tell. Of course, he wouldn't cry if the little jerk died. Correction, he would, but only because his eyes were still weeping from the Holy water. He blinked them, trying to see clearly.  
There was a yelp from Cordelia behind him, and the smell of burning flesh followed. She must have fallen into the bums' fire. Seconds later, footsteps were already running away from them. He didn't like the thought of these guys getting away before he knew what the hell was going on, but it was better than having his friends killed. A motor started, and wheels screamed as the suits left.  
You okay? Wesley asked, panting.  
I will be, Angel replied, taking the opportunity to rub his eyes and try to clear his vision. Everyone else? Cordy?  
With Wesley's help, Cordelia had beaten out the fire in her clothes, and returned to the others. The bums were looking at her very intensely, apart from some that seemed to be sleeping hard, but they were wise enough to not try to address her. She didn't pay them any attention. Although she could tell the burns weren't serious, they hurt a lot. She managed not to whimper, but couldn't withhold a slight sob from her voice. I think I may have to go see a doctor though. And the dress is practically ruined. Will you look at that sleeve! And the chest, it's all basically one big hole. Wesley, will you stop *staring*!  
Angel laughed weakly, mostly with relief. He'd feared much worse damage. Well, it doesn't sound like you're dying.  
Sierk's dead, Gunn said, more annoyed than actually regretting. He looked over the body, and Cordelia shuddered.  
Ick, already! What are you trying to do, an autopsy?  
Gunn looked up, frowning. His tentacles have been cut off. All of them.  
Don't touch them, Angel said sharply. They're poisonous.  
Not exactly, Wesley corrected him. The tentacles contain an opiate used to sedate the prey. It has to be injected or ingested just like any other drug, though, and the larger amount of it lies in the pointed gland by the tip.  
Gunn looked at him, thoughts catching up. There's no tip anymore. Drug dealers?  
  
There's something else, Angel said. The shoe. He reached for his shoe. Can you check it out?  
Gunn reached down and pulled off Sierk's shoe, looking it through. Inside the hollow heel he found a small piece of folded paper and pulled it forward. It had writing on it in a foreign language, and he handed it over to Wesley. You know what this is?  
Wesley took one look and stated: Greek. Lovely. Latin I can do easily. This will take a while.  
Then we should get started right away, Angel said. Still blinking away tears he decided that he was in no condition to drive and tossed the keys to Gunn.  
  
**********  
  
The people of Angel Investigations got seated in the car without noticing the thoughtful looks one of the bums gave them. That didn't surprise Johnny Trash one bit. Invisibility was something you worked hard on when you lived on the street. The less you got involved in the troubles of the residents the better. Yet a nagging feeling in the back of his mind told him that something these people had done or said should be familiar to him, not from experience but as something he had been told. But since his memory didn't tell him anything further, he shrugged and got back to his people, who were already vividly discussing the strange fight. It wasn't the most peculiar thing that had ever happened there, far from it, but it still wasn't everyday stuff. Johnny ignored the discussion and went over to the guys who had managed to sleep through the racket, checking on their pulses. Porcupine's was a bit slow, but not dangerously. All it told Johnny was that the kid was stoned again. Lord knew what a delusional guy would have thought of the fight if he had been sober and awake. Probably better he'd slept through it.  
  
**********  
  
Cordelia fell asleep as soon as she had her wounds tended to, but Wesley sat down with a dictionary, determined to find out what was going on. Angel's vision had more or less recovered, though his eyes still stung, and he'd started to help, but his Greek wasn't half as good as Wesley's, and Gunn had quickly explained that research was not his thing, and gone home.  
You *still* working on that one? Cordelia asked when she woke up several hours later, with a quick glance at the notes they had made. Then she proceeded in to the room by the counter and awkwardly got her spare dress down. One thing you learned in the otherworldly business was to always keep clothes around in case of emergency. Not everyone wanted to look rough and broody. Changing clothes was a little tricky with her arm in a sling, but she'd rather die than let the guys help her. Okay, so maybe not literally. She closed the door carefully before she got the singed dress off, less concerned about the sight of her naked body, which was after all a great one, than about the fumbling it took to reveal it. Cordelia Chase's pride had always been much stronger than her modesty.  
She got it done, and upon returning to the others checked the mirror in her purse, wishing that Angel would just get over his complexes and get a proper one. There were people who could still see themselves, after all.  
Can't you just check it up in a book or something?  
There is no book to look in, Angel replied. It's new.  
Cordy repeated, disbelieving. I thought you said it was ancient Greek.  
The language is ancient Greek. Someone has made a prophecy, because that's what this is, and gone through great trouble to translate it into a dead language.  
Anything to avoid people reading it, huh?  
Seems to be the basic point, yes.  
Angel made room for Cordelia between himself and Wesley by the reception desk and showed the notes properly. We're getting there, though. It will probably take a while, but I think we'll get the translation.  
Yeah, and then comes all the trouble of knowing what it really means, Cordelia pointed out. You're not going to make any 'tiny mistakes' this time, are you?  
Wesley wisely chose to ignore that, and instead told Cordy out loud what his and Angel's scribbling only half explained. It starts with: 'The mind benders wield their power over the weak of mind, but although eternal, that power is not unchanging. The invisible will find their warrior' --guessing this means Angel -- 'on the night of the full moon.' Which is tonight.  
That's it?  
No, but it's all we have translated. There's a mentioning of 'angelos' quite a few times later on, so it definitely has to do with us.  
Well, with him, at least, Cordy said, but her voice was light. What concerned Angel concerned them all.  
Angel leaned back and stretched his body a little, then rose from his seat. You can manage on your own for a while, can't you, Wesley? I'm going over to the Ritz again, see if there are any clues. Try to find out if this prophecy has anything to do with what happened there, will you?  
Of course, Wesley said absentmindedly and continued to work on the prophecy.  
About half an hour later he put the piece of paper down by the dictionary.  
This doesn't make sense, he said.  
Nothing ever makes sense to you, Cordelia said, leaning back in her chair. What's wrong?  
Well, it says that on the night of the full moon, tonight, as we have established, 'the angel will meet he who was once the angel'. What could it... He noticed Cordelia's pale face. Oh, no.  
  
Oh no, no, no.  
I'm getting a stake. You get Gunn.  
  
**********  
  
Johnny Trash warmed his cold hands over the fire. The sun wouldn't rise for another hour or two, and it was too cold to sleep. Words had spread about a new set of raids. That could mean almost anything from cops and vigilantes getting rid of the bums themselves, to demons hired to do it for them -- or the demons having some fun on their own accord. In any case, it meant finding a shelter was probably a good idea. Most of those places were worse than the streets, but at least they were relatively safe. The trouble was his people. Although it was a long time since he had been John Hathaway Jr., respected citizen of Los Angeles, he still had one major character trace left from that time -- responsibility. He was responsible for his people, in a way he was their leader, and if he went to a shelter he wanted them with him.  
Most of them wouldn't be too hard to convince. They had seen the raids before and didn't like it more than he did. Les would stay outside, of course, like he always did, but Les could take care of himself. Johnny was more worried about Porcupine, the newest in the bunch. Porky didn't trust people, and he had yet to experience the terror of raids. He was really just a young guy, not quite right upstairs and as deep into drinking as the worst of the old ones. Drinking wasn't enough, either. Someone had put him on Valium once, and although he had left all authorities far behind, that was one thing he still hadn't gotten rid of. He couldn't get hold of it very often, but it was a taste of heaven for him when he could. There was a real risk that he might just doze off one night, stoned out of his senses, and then never wake up.  
Hey, give that back to me!  
Porcupine had managed to get a bottle of moonshine an hour ago and cradled it like a baby ever since. He hadn't even drunk it all yet. But now Hammer had taken it from him and took a gulp.  
That isn't yours, you bloody cheat!  
Can't you share some? Hammer teased the youngster a little, and Porky got a furious look in his eyes.  
Johnny thought about stepping between them, but decided against it. Either Porky would stay in control, in which case Hammer would slap him around a little, but not more, or he'd lose it, in which case anyone who came near him was likely to get hurt bad. The latter wasn't really likely though, it had only happened a few times over the past months, when the kid had been too high to bother, and he had always been remorseful afterwards. He was a strange sort, Porky, but Johnny had spent a lot of years on the streets and seen many strange sorts, and he knew that everyone had their demons.  
A car pulled over and the tall, dark man from last evening stepped out of it and walked towards the hotel. The man looked quite young, but Johnny knew for certain that looks, in this case, were deceptive.  
Give it to me! Porcupine was desperate now, and managed to tear the bottle from Hammer's hands. The sudden lack of resistance made him stumble backwards, and right into the arms of the man walking by. Damn. This was never good. Johnny prepared himself to act if it came to trouble. But the man didn't seem angry. At first he just reached out to steady the falling bum, but when he looked down in Porcupine's unkempt face his expression turned into shock. Porky in his turn looked up at the man, and his face got that dazed look it sometimes did when he wasn't sure what was hallucinations and what was reality.  
The tall man swallowed. He stared down at Porky's face, which wasn't very spectacular, at least in it's regular version. he asked, not trusting his own voice.  
he whispered, just as they had all heard him say when he was stoned or sleeping. Then he snapped out of it and tore out of the other man's grip. You're not real! You never are!  
He fell over and sat down on the asphalt, clutching his head in his hands. The tall man -- Angel -- squatted next to him, and so did Johnny.  
Doyle, please. The man's voice was tormented. I thought you were dead. What happened to you?  
Don't you know? He sounded helpless. You always knew before.  
Johnny touched his shoulder. He's real, Porky.  
Doyle looked up, not yet drunk but not sober enough to make sense of this. He is?  
Angel put his arms around him and rocked him slowly. I'm real. God, we're both real.  
The young man shook his head, and tears formed in his eyes. It's all your fault anyway. All I wanted was a little peace. Everyone keeps dragging me in all directions. I had my bleeding atonement, but I messed it all up again, because of you.  
He closed his eyes and fought off Angel's arms. Go away.  
  
Johnny looked into the man's pained eyes, and at the car standing nearby, and he realized he had found a way to keep Porky from being the next victim of the raids.  
You're a friend of his? he asked Angel..  
Yes. I thought he was dead.  
He might as well be, Johnny said, indicating the state Doyle was in. Angel didn't need any further explanation.  
Come on, Doyle, he said, helping his friend up. I'll take you home.  
Doyle shook his head again, but he was too confused to fight. I don't want it. I can't take any more. Leave me alone.  
Go with him, Porcupine, Johnny said calmly.  
He's a vampire, he complained. Fighting things. I don't want that.  
And what are you? Johnny asked with a wry smile. He had seen Doyle's other face on those rare occasions when the kid lost control, and he knew the truth. It's with him you belong, not out here, not at the shelters or the madhouse. You've shouted it enough nights for us to know. Go with him.  
  



	2. 

**********  
  
You were dead!  
Yes, but I didn't like the company. Losers.  
--Spike Thompson and Lynda Day  
  
**********  
  
The trio of associates at Angel Investigations were ready with their weapons, and they braced themselves when the door opened. When Angel walked in with a bum by his side, they all raised their crossbows and stakes. He looked at them like they had lost their minds. What are you doing?  
Don't come any closer! Cordelia cried. Her eyes wandered to the bum, who looked dazed, but also slightly amused. And there was something about that amusement... that nose, prominent even among all that fuzzy something that didn't deserve the name of a beard, and the very short stature... She shook her head and lowered the crossbow, not trusting her own eyes. I'm dreaming, right? Only, I'm awake, so I can't be.  
Gunn and Wesley looked like they thought she had lost her mind completely, but Doyle gave a grin that was more characteristic than anything Angel had seen of him so far. I know the feeling, Princess.  
It *is* you, she said. She turned to the boys as if she expected them to explain it. It's Doyle. Realizing what she had just said, she frowned and glared at Wesley. How can it be Doyle? It was supposed to be Angelus!  
You thought I was Angelus? Angel said, finally beginning to understand some of this.  
Wesley shook his head while his mind worked frantically. 'O angelos does mean the angel, or... A thought struck him. Well, of course they would pick this time to be literate! The messenger.  
Forget it, Doyle said, sitting down on the nearest chair. I'm not the messenger for anyone anymore.  
We know. I am, thanks to you, Cordelia snapped. Okay, mistake discovered. For crying out loud, Gunn, put down that stake. Now that she had gotten an explanation, the full impact of what was happening struck her. She walked up to Doyle and hugged him tightly, only to draw back seconds later. she said, shaking herself like a cat. She grabbed a chair and sat down close to Doyle, but she didn't touch him again. Ew. You smell like you slept in a dumpster.  
The alley behind the Ritz, Angel filled in.  
Okay, that's just dumb when we have a whole hotel.  
So I've noticed. Doyle looked around. It's nice. Not as film noir as the old place, but nice. His eyes fell on Wesley, then Gunn. And I don't believe we've met. Which just proves that this is all happening, even though it doesn't seem likely.  
My sentiment exactly, Wesley said. I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, this is Charles Gunn. He considered reaching out his hand, but changed his mind. *This* was Doyle? It was hard to imagine that this shaggy drunk was the hero whose death had shadowed Wesley's first few months in L.A.  
This doesn't cover the important question though, Gunn said, sitting down as well. What are you doing alive?  
Doyle sighed and rubbed his face slowly. I screwed up.  
You screwed up dying? Cordelia asked, and Doyle made a grimace at the recollection.  
No, dying I managed just fine. It was coming back that did it. I was supposed to share some big vision that couldn't be handled by one person alone. The Oracles dumped me off outside the office... and I bailed.  
You what!? Cordelia asked. I could have died, you bastard! She punched him in the chest.  
I'm sorry! I didn't mean to stay away, I was just going for a drink. Wasn't until I was ordering it I realized something.  
You didn't have your wallet, Angel suggested.  
I didn't have my clothes.  
Cordelia put a hand up to her mouth to cover a smile, and even Gunn raised an eyebrow. Wesley, in his turn, looked intensely at Doyle, and the half-demon smiled weakly at his gaze. The only one who seemed unaffected by this revelation was Angel. I see. That's... inconvenient.  
You could say that. Doyle was clearly disturbed by having to tell this, and his hand went to the pocket of his jacket. Damn, I forgot the bottle.  
Never mind the bottle.  
I need a drink, okay? I'm sobering up, and I don't like it.  
  
Okay, okay! The police got me, and I got scared. So I turned all demon-face, which, as I would discover, was the most stupid thing I've done in my life -- both of them. He swallowed and pressed his hands together, rubbing the fingers with his thumb. They took me someplace. I don't know where, because they kept drugging me. Half of those shots and pills I don't even know what they were good for, or if they worked at all. The rest did, one way or another.  
Angel sat down, taking Doyle's hand. Get him a drink, he said to Wesley, the only one still standing up. After a moment's stillness, Wesley proceeded to find something, and Angel turned his full attention back to Doyle. I'm sorry.  
You and me both, mate. Doyle sat silent until Wesley returned, and he raised his eyebrows at the can offered. Beer? This agency has gone downhill without me. He made an attempt to grin. But it'll do. He drank deeply from the can and then sighed, rolling it restlessly between his hands. Then... something changed. It's all so hazy, but I've tried to put together the pieces I remember, and I think I went into cardiac arrest. And they hadn't expected that.  
He hesitated, and nobody said anything to fill the silence.  
They stopped drugging me, and I started to get my mind together again. But... I'd still see things that weren't real. I could go on for days and be fine, and then get a hallucination without realizing it myself. I think that screwed up whatever it was they wanted with me. So they just shipped me off to a mental hospital. I got Valium there, but no other drugs. I didn't mind, it made me less scared and allowed me to sleep. After a while, a couple of months maybe, they declared me healthy and kicked me out. Why I don't know, nothing had changed. I'm still mad. His voice was bitter.  
I wouldn't call you mad, Angel said, knowing full well after his time with Drusilla what madness could imply. Doyle didn't even bother to protest, just shrugged and emptied the can of beer.  
So when they let you out, you'd rather live on the streets than here? Cordelia asked, half hurt, half impatient.  
He looked at her very softly. I went to the office. When I found out that it was gone, and that the Oracles were gone too, I got scared. I started to wonder how many people were dead because of me, figured it was best to keep myself where other people were not. He smiled lopsidedly, for the first time actually recalling something good. Of course, that only worked half-way. The guys have been great. His eyes wandered from one person to another, seeing Angel's deep concern, Cordelia's frustrated mix of emotions, Gunn's impassive sympathy, and finally Wesley, who still hadn't sat down, and whose gaze wasn't so much expressing anything as looking for something. Doyle shrugged again, shaking off the memories. And that's the story of my glorious resurrection, which I made a mess of as usual. A thought struck him. Do you have a shower here?  
Angel forced a grin. Plenty of showers. Might even be able to find you a razor.  
  
**********  
  
This still doesn't explain the rest of the prophecy, Angel said, as they were waiting for Doyle to get out of the shower.  
I'm pretty happy with the results so far, Cordelia said. Even if he does make Danny De Vito seem appetizing.  
Wesley said, trying to concentrate on the work instead of the sounds of the half-demon using up water. After hearing so much about Doyle, the real thing was slightly surprising. Certainly, Cordelia had never described him as Prince Charming, but it had always been evident that she was talking about a rough diamond. Sierk had drugs in his tentacles, and Doyle was drugged by whoever it was that had him. My guess is that they wanted to see what worked on him, due to his half-demon metabolism. Can't have been much. For one thing, I've never heard of anyone using Valium against hallucinations.  
But it would work against the panic that hallucinations give, Angel said. Yes. It makes sense. New drugs are always a gold mine, but not if the customers react funny and don't want more. The thought of Doyle working as a guinea pig to spread drugs to the demon population was sickening. But it still doesn't say why, or what we're supposed to do about it.  
The water finally stopped pouring, and after a while Doyle came out, dressed in Angel's black shirt and jeans, both pathetically too big for him. His face was bleeding from the shaving, but the poor excuse of a beard was gone, and although the hair was still long it was cleaned and brushed. He looked like a rag doll made up from separate pieces, but coupled with the smile with which he greeted them, the ensemble showed exactly why rag dolls have been so popular for so long. Wesley, who had looked up for a second and stopped to stare, had finally found what he had been looking for. This was Doyle, the one Angel and Cordy had missed so keenly, even though they had adapted to the loss. No wonder Wesley had always felt inadequate. Shaking off the glance, he turned back to his notes. If we only knew who made the prophecy.  
Well, modern prophecies in ancient Greek can't exactly be common goods, can they? Gunn commented.  
The Pythia, Doyle said absentmindedly. He was checking out the hotel and didn't notice the stare the others gave him at first. When he did, he shook his head. Oh, no you don't. I'm not having any part of that. I'm grateful for the shower, but I'm not getting involved. I told Angel.  
Yes you did, Angel admitted. But you're already involved. The prophecy led to you, the danger must be those who did this to you. Don't you want to stop them?  
Doyle shrugged. What difference would it make?  
The difference of every next victim. The vampire's voice was low, and for a second, their eyes met, before Doyle had to look away.  
The Pythia. She's a seer, like I was. That's how we met. When I first got the visions I tried to figure out what the hell was happening to me, and she was one of the answers. She lives in the Hills. Or at least she used to. Snob prophet. He grinned a little. She didn't get the headaches, just pumped herself full of drugs and hit it off. Really skilled at languages, though.  
Drugs again, Gunn said. Seems to be all over the place.  
Isn't it always, Doyle said, and then laughed. Of course, she was all 'I'm not addicted, I'm destined to do this, it's for a higher purpose.' We got in a bit of a fight over that. Takes one to know one, and all that.  
Nobody asked the obvious question of what sort of relationship exactly Doyle used to have with this woman. The first one to speak was Angel, who asked: Do you know her address?  
If she hasn't moved, sure.  
Angel rose from his chair. The sun would be up soon, but there were sewers leading to the Hills. I'll go see what I can find out, then. Are you sure you'll be... Something struck him and he looked at Doyle, frowning. You can't wear that forever.  
I can go shopping with him! Cordelia volunteered.   
Doyle grimaced. Not a chance in hell. Where are my own clothes?  
We threw them out. I think there were lice in them.  
Of course there were. Okay, so just give me the money and I'll do the shopping myself.  
Angel and Cordelia looked at each other. They had a strong feeling that if they gave Doyle any money in the state he was in, he wouldn't exactly buy clothes with it.  
I can assist him, Wesley suddenly said, and the others looked at him in surprise. Doyle looked him up, measuring the other man's clothing with his eyes, and finally shrugged.  
Well, why not. But you just hold the money. I pick the clothes.  
  
**********  
  
Angel climbed up the sewers at the address he had gotten from Doyle. It was an impressive house, to say the least, practically screaming money. And just as the city map had indicated, the sewer surfaced on the west side that was still in shade. The name on the door wasn't the Pythia's, but nothing said there couldn't be several people living there. He rang the doorbell and a young girl answered it. A colourful dressing gown was swept around her chubby body, and she looked more out of it than was justified even at this time of day.  
she said, smiling drowsily at the vampire. How can I help you?  
My name is Angel. I'm looking for Tatiana Illyanovich. Taken name, most likely, to fit the job. Is she here?  
The girl tilted her head and shook it slightly, a sympathetic look on her face. She's been dead for the past year.  
Oh. But then... Angel took forward the prophecy and gave it to her. Do you know who made this?  
Of course. I did.  
You're the Pythia?  
Yup. Have been since Tatiana overdosed. She reached out her hand. I'm Polyhymnia Kallifatides. I considered Cassandra, but decided it would be bad luck. She started walking into the house, clearly expecting him to follow her, and turned around in confusion when he didn't. What are you waiting for?  
An invitation, he suggested.  
Oh, why would you... she started, slightly irritated, and then stopped. Oh. You're the vamp, aren't you?  
He stared at her, and she stared back, nodding. Yup you are, I saw you yesterday. Always do a follow-up on my prophecies. Come on in.  
He followed her inside, through the fancy but cluttered living area. On the way into the living room, she took a pack of cards from a shelf and held them up to him. Pick one.  
Slightly confused, he did. The moon.  
She took it from his hand and ripped it in two. One less stupid card in this world.  
That was certainly a bizarre way of making a conversation. Angel was beginning to feel like Alice. Are you telling me tarot cards don't work?  
If you can't see the future in a glass of water you can't see it in a crystal ball either. People are too fond of rituals. She sat down on a too large couch and motioned for him to do the same. Sierk was too fond of rituals, as well. That's why you're here, isn't it?  
Yes. I want to know what this means, he replied, indicating the prophecy.  
She got a joint out from a little box and proceeded to light it. I hope you don't mind?  
Would it matter if I did?  
Not really. It comes with the job. I've never heard of a Pythia that wasn't a junkie. She made a grimace. And I've never heard of a Pythia that lasted more than ten years, either.  
Inhaling deeply, she went on: Sierk was in pretty deep shit. He was mixed up with some dealers that handed him whatever dope works on his type of demon in exchange for his opiate. But things got rough, and he was afraid they were going to kill him, so he came here to see what I saw. Her eyes began to get dazed. I told him you would show up, but that it would be too late for him. Having the prophecy in obscure Greek was a safety precaution, as well as a concession to his flare for ritual.  
Angel nodded slowly. So what else can you tell me?  
It's a no-win situation, you know. Of course, that doesn't mean you can't make a difference. There's some experimentation in the works, customer-suited drugs for demons. Capturing people to be test subjects or ingredients, depending on what they're trying to do. Your spiky friend was lucky to get away with only a psychosis.  
This caught Angel's interest. You know about Doyle?  
Won't be easy for him, she said, speaking to no one in particular. But they will take care of each other, I guess. Some time down the road they might even enjoy themselves.  
They who? Angel asked, but Polyhymnia had already moved on to another subject, not listening to anything he said.  
There are so many people, I don't know who they are. But the dealers... Owen, you sleaze, I should have known you'd be involved. I won't cry to see you gone. Absentmindedly, she picked up a pen and paper and scribbled something down. Her eyes cleared a little, and she handed it to him. The one on the top is Owen Madison, my dealer. He's definitely involved. The four below might be, and then there's a friend of your friend who could be useful.  
Angel looked down at the note. The first five names and addresses told him nothing. Then he smiled a little as he read leader guy, Johnny something, behind the Ritz  
He thought his lawyers were trying to screw him over, the Pythia commented. You might want to check them out.  
Don't I always, Angel muttered. Once again, he'd have to take a look at the dirty affairs of Wolfram and Hart.  
  
**********  
  
Doyle said with a sigh, where are we going?  
I was thinking Santa Monica Place, Wesley said without taking his eyes off the road.  
Wouldn't a second-hand store be better? More clothes for the same amount of money.  
There's no need to worry, it's on the agency.  
That's why I worry. I don't want to owe Angel more than necessary.  
Wesley glanced at him. Are you telling me you would rather go to a Goodwill shop?  
Doyle shrugged. Some kind of thrift shop anyway. Yeah. It's not like I shopped at Rodeo Drive before any of this happened.  
Are you sure?  
Quite sure.  
Alright then. Wesley made a U-turn and they drove to the nearest second-hand store, only pausing at a supermarket to get socks and underwear. Once they got into the dusky little store, Doyle lit up.  
This is great! he said, browsing through the stacks and hangers. He stopped for a second and looked at Wesley, saying in a low voice: I need you to promise something. If I start acting... strange, I want you to get me out without any embarrassing scenes. Okay?  
Wesley nodded, moved by the sincerity of the request. This wasn't like those flippant remarks he had made in the Hyperion.   
Doyle grinned, pleased with the answer, and moved on to trying on clothes. At first he kept it serious, picking up some shirts and two pair of jeans, and trying them on just to see that they fit.  
Hey, Wesley? he yelled to the waiting Englishman. Can you find something like this but a bit smaller? He tossed out a green shirt, and Wesley caught it and proceeded to fulfil the task. He returned with a similar, if not identical, shirt of a smaller size, and entered the changing booth.  
Doyle was much too thin, there was no question about it, and long hair really didn't suit him. That didn't change the fact that he was quite pleasant to look at, dressed in jeans like this -- and nothing else. When Wesley didn't move to give him the shirt, Doyle looked up, and a certain glint came into his eyes seeing Wesley's expression. Wesley backed out, not sure what to make of it, until Doyle in the midst of his search for ordinary, everyday clothes decided to put on a pair of black leather pants with lacing by the sides. He bent over, laughing, and displayed the backside to Wesley.  
What do you think Angel would say if I showed up in these?  
Wesley coughed uncomfortably, and the clerk, a girl in her thirties with a remarkable likeness to Katharine Hepburn, hurried to say, They look great on you.  
Yeah. 'Oh, Ange, I'm just going to prostitute myself.' He'd go crazy. Don't you think?  
I think... Wesley said, trying to come up with something else. You should buy them.  
And the next thing I knew I'd be beaten up by some Neo-Nazi. I mean, leather trousers? Practically screams faggot.  
Oh. Well in that case...  
I'm not going to wear them. Doyle's eyes glittered. But can I buy them anyway? They're only twenty dollars. He looked like a child in a toy store, and the plea was such, as well.  
By all means, have them.  
They payed for the clothes and went outside. Wesley's stomach started to remind him that he hadn't eaten anything yet today. While he was thinking that, Doyle said wistfully: I could really use a drink.  
Wesley didn't know why that would surprise him. From what he understood, Doyle had practically been on a liquid diet even before he died. But as the one holding the money, he felt some sort of responsibility.  
How about lunch?  
Doyle looked thoughtful. Okay, I could use some lunch. Still want a drink, though. It was obvious he wasn't going to budge from that.  
After they had seated themselves at an Italian place, Wesley reluctantly let Doyle order in two single malts, and he watched slightly shocked as the half-demon poured his down before Wesley had had the chance to take more than a sip. I hope you're not counting on getting another.  
No, that would be too much to ask, right? Doyle couldn't keep the acid out of his voice, but then he made an apologetic grimace and looked down on his empty glass. I'm not sure I'll be able to take this. I mean, owing Angel was one thing before, but I'm not going back to fight, and I don't like being payed for.  
It wasn't as if Wesley couldn't understand that sentiment. But the way he saw it, Angel and Cordelia still owed one to Doyle. They'd love to do it, he said bitterly. You're their hero after all.  
Another grimace. Well, that's the problem, isn't it?  
It could be the lack of sleep, or the number of unsuitable images that kept running through his mind, or might just be that intense jealousy Wesley had felt for Doyle ever since he first started working at the agency. In any case, instead of being sympathetic, he was angry. Don't you think you're in enough trouble without flaunting your faults to your old friends? To them you might as well be the eighth wonder of the world. I've been living under your shadow, and I'm rather tired of it. If all you worry about is your own reputation, I would call you lucky.  
"Well, excuse me, but I don't find it much fun living in my shadow, either!" Doyle snapped. I didn't unplug the Beacon to play hero. I was about to lose the only thing in my life that kept me going, and I wanted to die. What's so heroic about that?  
You saved them, Wesley said.  
Doyle nodded, and his eyes were far away. Somebody had to make the jump or we'd all die. If Angel had done it, I think I would have killed myself anyway. Better this way, then. Are you going to drink that?  
Wesley looked down on his whiskey. Doyle, you really shouldn't...  
Well, are we just going to sit here and admire it, then?  
There was no reasoning with him, so Wesley took the glass and drank it all. He couldn't just pour it down like water the way Doyle did, but to his credit he only coughed once. Doyle stared at him.  
You're out of your bleeding mind.  
That makes two of us, then. Wesley was still angry, and he wasn't about to budge. One drink was all I promised you, and that's all you're going to get.  
Doyle said, almost ready to smack something. Be my mum. As if Angel wasn't bad enough.  
The food arrived, and they both silenced, staying that way during the meal. Finally Doyle spoke up, his voice a lot softer than it had been before.  
This isn't really about you. And I'm sorry... Because I can see how it should be.  
Wesley looked up into the eyes of this alcoholic, unstable half-demon recently resurrected from the dead, this hero that refused to see his own heroism, and the eyes were so blue and sympathetic that he found it in himself to smile.  
  
**********  
  
Angel entered the office and almost shuddered when he saw the four others playing cards together. Doyle as the dealer was dressed the way he always used to. With him and Cordelia on one side and Gunn and Wesley on the other, it was two images of past and present clashed into each other, images that didn't match. It was perfect, but it was also scary. Cordelia, less interested in the game than the guys, was the first to notice Angel standing there.  
she said. Did you find anything?  
I might have, he said, but there's not much I can do until the sun sets. He sat down next to them. And it seems I have to get into Wolfram and Hart. Again.  
Both Gunn and Wesley looked up. Easier said than done, man, Gunn pointed out.  
Yeah, well, the Pythia seems to think it's important. Angel looked at Doyle, who had payed no attention to what was said whatsoever, as if it didn't even concern him. Doyle, I'm sorry, but the Pythia you knew is dead.  
That did make him look up, and his eyes widened for a second before he managed a sad smile. I guess that's only fitting.  
Forget about the Pythia, Cordelia said impatiently. You can't get to their files, and you know that as well as I do.  
Angel rose from his chair, trying to figure something out. A thought occurred to him, and he raised his eyebrows. Which lawyer was it? Do you know?  
Cordy looked at him with a superior expression. No, but I did put the articles in the database.  
He began to pace, shoving his hands into his pockets. Look them up, will you?  
And of course, I put it in the database so anyone could look it up, including you, she commented, looking up at him for a second. His strides didn't slow down, and she shook her head. Who am I kidding. With a few swift clicks, she was at the article. Lucien Martin, she read. Do we know him?  
Angel shook his head. But they wouldn't put someone big on a guy like Sierk. Which is good, because the big guys know never to keep anything on their personal computers. The little guys...  
Worth a try, Cordelia said with a shrug. How will you get him to invite you, though?  
That remains to be figured out, Angel replied. But we ought to manage. Right now I need to get some sleep. Doyle?  
Doyle looked up, still not particularly interested.  
Would you go with me to see your friend Johnny tonight? I need his help.  
Yeah, I guess. He didn't seem too eager at the idea, but at least he didn't refuse flat-out. Angel didn't like the way Doyle pushed him away. He had said he was okay with his old friend avoiding the fights, what else was required of him? Of course, it did seem as if Cordelia got a certain amount of cold shoulder treatment too, even though that could be on her account as well as Doyle's. Was there anyone Doyle would open up to?  
Have you called your mother? Angel suddenly asked. It didn't come out the way he wanted it too, and Doyle looked down at the cards he was shuffling.  
What would you have me say to her? Hi mum, I'm not dead, I've just been living on the streets since I got out of the loony bin. Don't you think she'd prefer the dead hero?  
No, I don't.  
All he got was a shrug, but he didn't give up. I think you should call her.  
Yeah, well, I might have given my life to you before, but that one got crispy-fried and you don't own this one. Doyle said, dealing the cards. It was a shocking statement, and although Cordelia was the only one who knew him well enough to be truly surprised, Gunn and Wesley also exchanged glances. Doyle realized that he had gone too far and looked up. I'm sorry, Angel. I could probably use some sleep as well.  
The vampire nodded. It's okay. Cordy can show you to a room.  
I was winning again, Cordelia complained without really meaning it. She sighed and stood up. Come on, I'll get you a bed.  
Will you get in it with me, too? Doyle asked innocently as he followed her out of the room.  
In your dreams.  
Oh, princess, what a beautiful promise.  
It was just bickering, nothing else, but Angel felt strangely relieved. Once they were out of sight, he lifted the phone and dialled a long-distance number.  
Maureen? This is Angel. Are you sitting down? I think you probably should be.  
Let me guess, Gunn mumbled. Doyle's mom.  
But he didn't want to call her! Wesley replied, upset at Angel's choice.  
Well, he doesn't. Angel does. Gunn shook his head in clear disapproval and mixed Doyle's and Cordelia's cards into the deck. I don't know this guy, but if it was my mom, I wouldn't want Angel calling her either.  
  
**********  



	3. 

**********  
  
"Insanity -- a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world."   
--_R. D. Lang_   
  
**********  
  
Angel woke up about an hour after sunset, and went to find Doyle, who was still sleeping in the room that had been prepared for him. Doyle stirred in the bed, and clear blue eyes met his.  
You ready? he asked.  
Just a minute. Doyle rolled out of bed and started to put on the jeans. He had changed back from his new clothes to the shirt Angel had let him borrow, and Angel smiled at the sight. At least there was something of his that Doyle would accept without all that suspicion. I'm a bit hungry, he said.  
Okay. I'll... make you some bacon and eggs.  
Doyle raised an eyebrow. You've got your time schedule severely mixed up, you know that? But thanks. Give me some time to get ready.  
Of course.  
Angel went to the kitchen and started to fry the bacon and eggs. It was ridiculous to feel grateful that someone allowed him to make supper for them, but he did anyway. He was on the verge to start looking for Doyle when the half-demon entered the kitchen.  
This place is big. I thought I'd lose my way and never get out.  
You'll get used to it, Angel said. If you decide to stay. Pressing Doyle on the issue, he thought, would only increase the strained distance between them.  
Doyle didn't answer, and Angel turned around. What he saw caused him to drop the pan and grab for his friend's shoulders. Doyle's head was arched back, his eyes staring in panic, and although Angel said his name repeatedly, he got no response. The muscles under his touch were tense, and Doyle's hands were clenched together in fists so tight Angel could smell blood seeping out under the nails. Not knowing what to do, Angel cradled Doyle and brought him down to a sitting position.  
Shh, it's fine now, he said helplessly, stroking Doyle's cheek.  
The only result of that was that Doyle screamed as if he had been touched by knives and started to shudder. Cordelia came running in and stopped when she saw what was going on.  
What's wrong with him? she asked, half concerned, half terrified.  
I don't know.  
Doyle whispered, and Angel's attention immediately came back to him. Can't... breathe...  
Cordelia looked up to see smoke rise from the stove. Speaking of burning, that bacon is turning to coal, she said and hurried to remove the pan from the stove, grateful to have something she could help with.  
The connection finally clicked in Angel's head. The Beacon.  
I said bacon, Cordelia commented, scraping the blackened meat into the trash.  
No. That's what he's remembering. The smell of frying probably set it off -- if he needs a trigger at all.  
Angel kept holding Doyle and try to soothe him until Doyle finally relaxed in his grip and looked at him with exhausted, but fully recognizing, eyes.  
You okay?  
I'm fine. Doyle stood up, hands shaking slightly as he straightened his shirt. But I think I'll skip supper.  
It's ruined anyway, Cordelia said, staring at him. You know, I think I prefer the visions. At least I only have to see every bad thing once.  
Doyle smiled weakly at her before turning to Angel. Shall we go, then?  
Are you sure you...  
I'm fine. Stop babying me.  
They left the Hyperion and drove down to the Ritz-Carlton. Angel watched Doyle in the rear mirror, but got no response; Doyle just looked out of the window and refused to speak.  
The hotel was covered in cops, which was only natural since there had been a murder the night before. At the sight, Doyle looked around nervously for his friends. An old man in an oversized raincoat caught his eye, and he motioned for him to come closer.  
Well, if it isn't Porky! I almost didn't recognize you. The man tried to sound fresh, but his voice was serious, and Doyle watched him closely, more worried by the minute.  
Les, what's wrong? Where are the others?  
At the shelter, they left today. You got out just in time, kid. They got to Hammer.  
They who? Angel asked, as Doyle paled considerably.  
The raids, Les said, Doyle slowly whispering the same words. About three hours ago. They found him in the dumpster with his head cut off. Drained. The look he gave Doyle was poignant.  
Demons, then?  
That's the scary part. Johnny's almost certain it's humans. Which only makes it worse, doesn't it? They're not just out for a meal.  
Doyle shook his head, looking as if he was about to faint or throw up or both at once. He started to walk off, too shocked to say anything, when Les called to him.  
Don't do anything to yourself, you hear me?  
Doyle barely looked back, as he coldly replied: Don't worry, I don't plan to let those bastards outlive me.  
He sat in the car and told Angel, without looking at him, The shelter's half a mile west of here. I guess we really need to talk to Johnny now.  
Angel didn't reply to that or start the car. Instead he looked at Doyle so intensely that Doyle finally turned around to look back. What did he mean, 'don't do anything to yourself'? When Doyle didn't answer, Angel quickly grabbed his arm and pulled up the shirt sleeve. What he saw just confirmed his suspicions. You did this?  
Doyle pulled back his arm. Don't worry. The Powers don't let me die. They've got it in for me. He let out a sigh that was almost, but not quite, a sob. I didn't even like him. Much. He was impossible to get along with, and he never watched anyone's back except his own.  
Angel just listened without saying anything. He wanted to scream out for Doyle to not change the subject, but those faded scars would have to wait in the face of what had just happened. Instead he just started the engine and got going, keeping half an eye and most of his attention on Doyle.  
He was still one of us. Not some corpse with his head cut off. Not a *thing*. Doyle looked at Angel. That's what we all are to the residents, you know. It could have been any one of us. It's not like they see any difference. And then there's Tatiana... I knew she wouldn't live long. Everyone who had met her could see that, she must have been the only one who didn't know. He drummed with his fingers on the dashboard. Everyone dies, don't they?  
Angel replied. Two and a half centuries of losses, and yet his voice was so calm at the simple word.  
I'm not going back to fight...  
Since there seemed to be more coming, Angel waited.  
But this is my battle, and I can't just turn away from it. Can't make the same stupid mistake I did with Lucas.  
He silenced, looking up and outside. Then he gave a quick nod for Angel to stop the car. We're here.  
They climbed out of the car and rung the bell to the shelter. After a while, a woman in her forties opened the door and looked at them in a way that clearly informed them this was not the best time of night for visitors. We're closed for the night.  
We need to talk to Johnny, Doyle hurried to say. We just heard about Hammer.  
When he started to speak the look in her eyes changed, and although you couldn't claim that she showed any surprise as she eyed him from top to toe, it was clear that she registered the new facts.  
Porcupine Doyle? Come on in. She let them through the door, looking from Doyle to Angel and back, mind obviously racing to understand this. I didn't expect to ever see you outside the alley. But I heard you left it. The look she gave Angel was suspicious to say the least as she asked Doyle, How do you make a living these days?  
Angel found himself blushing at the implications of the glance she gave him. He wasn't sure if she would be shocked to find out he was a vampire, or relieved. Doyle picked up his embarrassment, and actually seemed amused at it.  
Major Callahan, this is my old friend Angel. There was a slight emphasis on , enough to get some suspicion away from the woman's eyes. He's a private investigator. We really need to talk to Johnny.  
Of course, Major Callahan replied, softened by the news that this was a man on the right side of the law. Third to the left. Good luck.  
They proceeded into the room she had indicated, and Johnny was indeed there, recognizing Angel instantly and Doyle a fraction of a second later. he said, nothing more, although he caught every single change in Doyle's appearance.  
Doyle replied, sitting down next to his friend, close enough to show the intimacy of many months spent together on the streets. Les told us about Hammer.  
Johnny's expression darkened and he nodded. Same guys that did the demon -- or at least the same type of guys. Fancy clothing and cars, efficient way of working. This isn't just the average urge to clean up the city. I've talked to people, your kind of people, and it seems like Hammer is on his way to become samples for testing and spiked drinks for vampire junkies. No offence.  
None taken, said Angel, who hadn't been fond of spiked blood even before his soul surfaced. Do you know who's doing it?  
I don't have any names, but probably some warlocks, one or two scientists, mostly dealers. Not the ones that bother about people like us. We're just the ingredients. Seven down just in Pasadena since the raids started. He punched Doyle lightly on the arm. I'm really glad to have gotten you out of there.  
Yeah, me too, I think, Doyle admitted. Anything else? More specific?  
Not at the moment, no. The older man's eyes warmed. But if you need pawns, there are a couple of *hundred* of us unarmed and ready.  
You're not a pawn, Doyle said fiercely, and then, calmer, but I'm glad to have you here.  
Johnny grinned, but seemed very pensive as he looked at his friend. Finally, he said, Maybe you should go talk to Major Calahan for a while.  
Doyle grimaced. I don't want to... Wait a minute, do you want me out of here so you can gossip about me?  
  
He shrugged and rose from the bed. I'll go talk to some of the guys then. You two have fun.  
Angel watched Doyle leave and felt a pang of jealousy. How come Doyle would relate so easily to this man, but not to him? After all the nights he had spent mourning, he deserved better.  
So, how has the day been? Johnny asked.  
He had some sort of an attack right before he left, Angel answered. But he won't talk to me about it.  
I'm not surprised. It's his weakest point, after all. Johnny talked slowly and calmly, looking for just the right words. It was peculiar to hear a bum talk like a school teacher -- but why not? Doyle had been a school teacher once, as well as a bum. He's perfectly lucid most of the time, unless he's stoned, and he doesn't get stoned quickly. I don't know if it's demon metabolism or just that he's Irish. Johnny smiled, but the smile soon faded again. Then all of a sudden he won't be. Sometimes it's an attack, like you said, sometimes it's just strange behaviour. He'll walk up to strange people and beg them to forgive him. Most of the time it will be women, pretty-looking brunettes, but now and then it's a tall, dark man. That's what I thought you were until you started to talk back to him.  
There was a moment's silence until Johnny said what Angel had been feeling. To be honest, I was a little resentful. I mean, they're my gang, I'm the one who keep them together, and most of the time I was the one to hold him when things got bad. But I knew he had to go with you.  
He just came because you told him to, Angel said, not able to keep the bitterness out of his voice.  
Johnny nodded. Maybe. He thinks he's being punished by the Powers, but if you ask me he's doing all the punishing himself. He did stay away on purpose, left his friends and whole life behind. I don't think it's the first time, either. It doesn't mean he doesn't care. Just that a lot of things have changed and he doesn't know how to deal with it. It's quite a special young man you've got living with you, but it's not necessarily the same young man you once knew.  
I understand.  
Johnny looked at Angel very closely, as if he was trying to find something. No, I don't think you do. He rose from where he was sitting. Try to act normal when he freaks, it won't help if you don't. And don't let him anywhere *near* Valium, okay?  
Angel said. He was still pondering the conversation as he returned to the car with Doyle. He felt as if he had just been dismissed from an audience with a king.  
  
**********  
  
Bum guy wasn't helpful? Cordelia asked when the two of them returned with moping faces, and Doyle gave her a glance that told her clearly that he didn't appreciate that comment. Not that he'd be angry at Cordelia for being tactless. It would be like being angry at her for having brown eyes; it was part of who she was.  
He was very helpful, Angel replied. He just didn't know all that much, even though he promised to do whatever he could for us. I think we just found ourselves another bunch of street allies.  
Gunn grinned at that. Don't underestimate those guys. They may not be as mean as my bunch, but anyone who can stay alive on the streets of LA 24/7 all year long has to be tough. So, what's next? Those other names on the list? We checked the phone book, and I think we've got all the right addresses.  
Five of them, assuming they're all involved, Cordelia commented. And five of us.  
Forget it, Angel said abruptly. None of you goes out alone after people like this. I'll take that Owen guy, and I'll need Cordy to help me with the lawyer. Team up as you like to take the others.  
The other associates looked at each other, and Wesley's eyes, even though he didn't want them to, immediately went to Doyle's. And Doyle was looking back. Sure, we can do that, he said slowly, and he cracked a smile of the kind that used to be reserved for Cordelia. Wesley, although incredibly tired, started to rise, but was interrupted by Gunn's sarcastic voice.  
You know, unlike you, we haven't been sleeping all afternoon.  
He's right, Angel said, putting a hand on Wesley's shoulder. Get some sleep, all of you. I'll go talk to Owen Madison. The rest of them can wait until tomorrow.  
  
  
**********  
  
The Madison residence was even flashier than the Pythia's. There was lots of money in drugs -- particularly, Angel suspected, if you supplied something few others did. He rang the doorbell and waited. Finally, the door was opened by a girl that looked like she belonged in a Playboy bunny suit.  
she said, in that flirtatious baby voice some men found irresistible. Angel wasn't one of them.  
I'm looking for Owen Madison.  
Uh-huh. Come on in, she said, retreating back into the house. Owen, darling!  
She didn't seem to have any doubts about inviting a perfect stranger into the house, or find this a peculiar time for a social call. It could be because she didn't have much upstairs, but it probably had more to do with this type of visits being more common than not.  
What can I do for you?  
Owen Madison wasn't particularly tall, well-built or attractive, but he had an air of well-living, benign businessman around him. There was none of that slight tackiness of his girlfriend in him -- in fact, Angel was slightly surprised to see a man like him with a girl like her at all. Sure, she was young and pretty, but that sort of man usually went for class. He probably had another one for dinner parties.  
A friend of mine recommended you, Angel said slowly. He noticed a mirror on the wall and deliberately walked in front of it, knowing that Madison would notice.  
I see, the man said, watching carefully. What friend would this be?  
Her name is Polyhymnia.  
Madison raised an eyebrow. Mary sends me customers? How thoughtful of her. Is there anything in particular you are looking for? Most of the goods are crude, I'm afraid. You know what it's like, the real delicacies stir up the wrong kind of attention. Mostly it's the common goods mixed up with whatever fills your frenzy -- thirty-year-old male and LSD, perhaps? I got in a fine shipping of digitalis-filled eyes the other day, but that is obviously not quite your thing.  
LSD is okay, Angel replied, but I was looking for something more specified. Who is your supplier?  
Well, most of it comes from a lab here in town, although I doubt you could get your thrills from them. There are a couple of warlocks doing the final touches. Don't worry, I can get you what you want, whatever you want. Here, let me show you the LSD... He leaned down over a chest of drawers.  
I don't think so, Angel said, kicking the drawer so Madison's hand was caught and he dropped the crossbow he had tried to pick up. Angel slammed him into the wall and shifted form. Is this what you call hospitality?  
Who the hell are you? Madison panted. Mary would never send me a vampire, she hates the lot of you.  
Yeah, well, I'm different. My name's Angel. It was obvious the name was familiar, because Madison started to fight more ferociously. Now, the address to that lab?  
You can't intimidate me. This isn't your average one-track-minded demon. Do you have any idea how many customers there are out there? This is a massive market, you can't stop it! Then are ten suppliers for every one you could possibly kill.  
That won't matter to you, because you'll be the first one I drain. Angel put his face near the man's throat and growled: Now, where is that lab?  
A searing pain made him flinch, and he stared at the cross that had burned his face. The girl. He'd forgotten about her.  
Go away! she cried, like a five-year-old with a scraped knee, but there was nothing childish in the way she held that cross. It seemed she had been around.  
Angel sighed. He could kill them both in a heartbeat, but as much as he longed to sink his fangs in this smug little dealer, he knew killing a human was to cross the line. And there was no way he could kill the girl. He grabbed her and flung her against the wall as well. Stay quiet and I won't hurt you. The lab?  
Go to hell, Madison muttered, and Angel twisted his arm. The girl muttered something, and he let go. What was that?  
Reluctantly, she repeated the Santa Monica address, and Angel silently thanked the PTB for letting him get out of this without having to kill. Thank you.  
He threw them back against the wall, hard enough to stun, and headed out of there. He wasn't quite sure what he would do when he reached the lab, whether he was going to check it out or to bring it all down with a bang, but he knew he had to go.  
When he finally got there, he did neither, because the place was empty. It was obvious that there had been a laboratory of some sort once, but it certainly wasn't there anymore. The girl had probably thought she was telling the truth, but there was just one way to find out for sure. With a sigh, Angel turned the car around and went back to Madison's place.  
The lights were off and the garage door open. Suspicious, he went inside and found the car gone. He cursed to himself and went back to the main building, breaking the door to get inside. Nobody was there, and although there were still half-full coffee cups on the living room table, the chest of drawers in the hall was emptied. Angel picked up the phone and dialled the number of the Hyperion. He expected Wesley but got Gunn.  
Hey. I got to Owen Madison, but it seems I scared him off. His girlfriend gave me an address that turned out to be wrong. Could you guys do me a favour and search the house? Doubt he'll be coming back.  
Gunn's replies were short and certain, and Angel smiled. He might have messed this up, but at least his associates knew what they were doing.  
  
**********  
  
Doyle gave Wesley a sympathetic here goes grimace as they went up the stairs. They were heading out to the second dealer, after being kicked out by the first when they started talking about demon-suited drugs. Doyle was about to knock when he stopped and looked at Wesley, who nodded in agreement. It was too late to try a different approach now.  
A tall, blond man opened the door, letting the security chain stay on.   
Sam Hartnell? You got anything for a Brachen demon?  
The door closed again and there was a rattle of the chain being taken off. Then it opened completely. Come on in.  
After letting them in, Hartnell sat down in an armchair and gestured for them to do the same. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. Brachens are tricky. Most human drugs have little or no effect, and those that do could kill them. What have you been trying so far?  
Valium, mostly, Doyle said, keeping his voice amazingly steady. And ordinary drinking.  
Hartnell muttered. Sure, does the trick, but it's not much fun. If you don't mind a bit of cannibalism, there's skin of Mastema, usually works fine for low-level demons and hybrids.  
Doyle glanced at Wesley, trying to figure out his reaction, and found the Englishman looking just as calm as himself. Hartnell followed his glance.  
You're no demon, are you?  
He's a friend of mine, Doyle hurried to say.  
There was an implication in that statement that made Doyle look straight into the man's eyes and repeat his words. Hartnell didn't look convinced, but he shrugged. Okay, none of my business what you guys do, as long as you don't do it here. So, you're looking for something out of the ordinary, right, or you wouldn't be here?  
Yeah. I heard about this lab in Santa Monica, but it doesn't seem to be there anymore.  
They moved it to Pasadena a couple of months ago. Things were getting a bit too obvious, you know? They've got plenty of fine stuff, if you come back in a few weeks I'll have told them about your case.  
The phone rang, but Hartnell didn't answer it, and Doyle got a strange frown on his face, hearing the repeated signals.  
Are you listening?  
Shouldn't you pick up the phone? It was barely a whisper.  
They'll call back if they need me.  
Doyle rose from his chair and walked up to the phone, keeping his hand on it without picking up the earpiece. They should have told you in person.  
Who should have told me what? Hartnell asked sharply, and Wesley suddenly realized what was going on. He walked up to Doyle and touched his shoulder, saying his name softly. Doyle didn't respond, just kept talking.  
Fifteen years of marriage and almost twenty at the factory, and all she got was a phone call? Someone should have been there for her. I tried to be, but... I wasn't even his, you know?  
Yes, Doyle, I know. Wesley took his arm and guided him towards the door. I'm sorry about this.  
Hey, no problem, the puzzled Hartnell said. Seems like your boyfriend is a bit too stoned already.  
Wesley blushed. He's not my boyfriend.  
That checkout he did on your ass said differently. As I said, none of my business. I'll see you again, then?  
  
Wesley took Doyle out of the apartment. He should have been able to react quicker to Doyle's episode, he thought guiltily, but this had been nothing like that seizure Angel had told him about.  
  
Wesley immediately paid attention, noticing that Doyle was looking at him now.   
Sorry about that.  
It's alright. They were outside the building now, and Wesley unlocked the car.  
No, it's not alright, Doyle said fiercely, sitting down. My mind is playing tricks on me, and it's not alright at all.  
There was really no good answer to that, and so Wesley sat silent for a while, thinking. Finally, he said, Doyle, may I ask you something?  
Sure, what? Doyle asked wearily, bracing himself.  
Did you check out my... arse before?  
Whatever Doyle had expected, it certainly wasn't this, and he started laughing.   
Forget it. Hartnell said you were, and... Never mind. Wesley wished he had never said anything, but Doyle seemed very amused and not the least bit offended.  
I don't know. I guess I did, then. It's a very nice arse, I can tell you that.  
Thank you. I think. Wesley searched his mind for something to say, something that would be safe and manly and still have Doyle smiling that way at him. What finally came out of his mouth was probably not the best possible thing. Is mineral water below you?  
Doyle's mouth twisted suspiciously. I check out your arse and suddenly I go from whiskey to mineral water? What a cliché.  
Wesley had to laugh. Well, if you don't want any...  
That depends on. Are you buying?  
Do I have a choice?  
Sure you do. I could swipe your wallet.  
Wesley laughed, steering towards a nice-looking bar. I'm buying.  
They were already sitting down with their drinks when Wesley dared to ask the other question: It was your father, wasn't it?  
He didn't need to explain himself further. Doyle looked down on his drink. Not as such.  
For a moment, Wesley was confused, until he remembered the circumstances around Doyle's birth. Your stepfather then.  
  
What happened to him?  
Accident at the factory. Doyle frowned. I guess that was why mum always wanted me to study, to make sure I got a safe job that wouldn't kill me. The irony of this struck him, and he burst into laughter again. Didn't work out that way, now, did it?  
I guess not. Wesley was amazed at the amount of tenderness Doyle's voice had when speaking of his parents, even the one who wasn't his own. Do you miss him?  
Always. He was my da for thirteen years. That's got to count for more than shagging my mum.  
Wesley, who had avoided thinking about his family for many years, simply nodded.  
I saw him, you know, Doyle continued. When I was dead, or some time after that -- it's all so hazy. He said, 'I chose you to be mine.'  
Doyle didn't say anything else, and Wesley got a lump to his throat, understanding exactly how important those words were, what it meant to be chosen like that. He never had been.  
  
**********  
  
Gunn and Cordy had even less luck. First one was involved alright, Gunn said, as they all gathered together in the Hyperion. But he didn't know much, got all his stuff from Owen Madison.  
And Owen Madison fled town, Cordelia concluded with a grimace. Which leaves this whole Martin thing.  
We could use some more research for sure, Gunn pointed out. I mean, come on, what have we really learned? Lots of icky things about what people are willing to get high on, but not much on how to stop these jerks.  
Wesley put his hands together, thinking. Their main location seems to be somewhere in Pasadena, he suggested. Probably near the Ritz. That's where most things have happened after all.  
He couldn't help looking at Doyle, who was pacing the room and had yet to say something. Doyle noticed the glance and shrugged. So we search it.  
Pasadena? We don't have resources for that.  
Yes we do. Doyle swirled around, and his eyes wandered over the room, looking for something. Compared to his usual behaviour, this was almost enthusiastic. Do you have a phone book?  
Cordelia took one from a drawer and handed it to him. What exactly are we looking for?  
Salvation army.  
  
Gunn was the first to get it. You're going to ask your pals for help.  
That's the general idea. Doyle searched through the phone book and found the right number. Johnny's in charge of fourteen blokes -- well, thirteen, he corrected, remembering Hammer's death. In those thirteen, however, he still counted himself. He'll know some people, and they'll know some people -- if we're lucky, we can have a couple of hundred working on our side.  
Are you sure we should drag them into this? Wesley asked.  
They were dragged into this long before we were. Dialling as he spoke, he abruptly broke off, distracted, and said into the telephone, "Yeah - ah, Marie, right? I'm looking for Johnny. Him and the guys there? Great. Can you put him on?"  
He turned back to the others. "You haven't heard them talk about the raids like  
I have. They're already involved, all right... hey, Johnny." He turned all his concentration towards the phone, explaining the situation. Wesley watched him carefully without actually hearing what he was saying, no more than he heard the discussion Gunn and Cordelia were having next to him. It hadn't even been three days since their first meeting. This was insanity. If he had some time to think it over, he would get over this and get on with his life.  
The hell he would.  
  



	4. 

**********  
  
Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, Where have I gone wrong? Then a voice says to me, This is going to take more than one night.  
--Charlie Brown  
  
**********  
  
You know, this brings back very weird memories, Cordelia said, adjusting the fake stomach for the umpteenth time since they started their walk. They had gone to some lenghts to make it look realistic, even filled a bra of a size Cordelia had uttered a hope she would never wear for real, and Angel knew exactly which memories she was talking about.  
Well, it's just cotton, he said, trying to sound reassuring. And maybe if you can remember what it was like... I mean, to be pregnant, not the demon thing... oh, forget it.  
No, you're right, Cordelia replied, watching the street signs. Okay, this is the street. That's just what Dostoevsky says.  
  
Yeah, he had all these ideas about how to use your life when you're acting.  
Dostoevsky was a novelist.  
That puzzled her. Really? Then who am I thinking of?  
Maybe Chekhov?  
No, it was definitely one of those four-syllable guys. She waved that away. Never mind. We're here.  
They entered the flashy building, and Angel read the names by the door. Martin. Fourth floor. He started up the stairs, but Cordelia stopped him.  
What are you, nuts? We can't go straight up. What if he saw us enter?  
Angel sighed. So what do you propose we do?  
Grinning, she opened her bag and handed him a handful of the disordered pamphlets they had picked up at the shelter. Angel was no more comfortable with those than with the borrowed uniforms Johnny had managed to get for them. He looked at the one on top with distaste. Cordelia's grin got wider, and he knew what she was going to say.  
Hand these out.  
  
Didn't anyone tell you? It's the deal for using the uniforms. We're not going back until they're all gone.  
He stared at her, and she started to walk up the stairs. Her steps were the waddly pregnant kind, but she managed to look cheerful even from behind.  
You're kidding me, aren't you? he asked, still only halfway up the flight of stairs as he heard her ring the first doorbell.  
Can't we just throw them in a dumpster or something?  
She just laughed at that and started an amiable speech on the person opening the door. Hello, I come from the Salvation Army, would you like...  
Angel normally found sales pitch embarrassing, and this being an act made it only slightly better. He was relieved when they got as far as the fourth floor and Cordelia started her fake moan. Angel wasn't all that experienced with women in labour, but he thought she did it well. He rung the doorbell and listened for the footsteps approaching the door.  
Lucien Martin was a young, neatly dressed man with mild eyes and a small brown beard, and he seemed very surprised at seeing a young Salvation soldier about to have a baby on his doorstep.  
Can we come in and use the phone? Angel asked. My wife just went into labour.  
I suppose... Lucien said, which really wasn't good enough. Fortunately, he continued with, Come on in.  
Angel supported Cordelia, who sat down on a chair in the hall, and followed Lucien to the study. The lawyer stood by the threshold, suspiciously watching both Cordy and Angel. That might have been alarming if his suspicions had been even remotely directed at the right things. As it was, Angel did exactly what he had said he would do, which was to pick up the phone and call a taxi for Cordelia.  
She was still doing her panting and moaning act, and when Angel came out she gave him a brave little smile. Did you get a taxi?  
It'll be right here, he said, turning to explain to Lucien, It's our first child.  
Well, that's nice. He seemed eager to get them out of here. Seems a bit risky to hand out pamphlets when you're due to have a baby. Especially this late.  
It took a little longer than expected, that's true, Cordelia said, being aided by Angel to rise from her chair. She smiled at Lucien. Thank you so much for your help. God will surely bless you.  
Lucien's face softened a little, and he shut the door behind them. Here. Let me help you into the elevator.  
Going outside to the taxi, Angel turned to Cordelia. 'God will surely bless you'?  
What? I was in character! That's what a Salvation woman would say, isn't it?  
Not to him, it isn't.  
Cordelia sighed and sat down in the taxi, giving the driver the address to the Hyperion. What now, then? she asked as they drove away.  
Angel nodded towards the rear window. See that old bum begging by the sidewalk?  
No, I don't, because I can't turn around. I'm guessing it's one of Doyle's old friends?  
His name is Les, and he's got enough spare change in that box to call me the minute Lucien leaves the building.  
Cordelia leaned back. Well, isn't that convenient. She shifted in the seat, trying to reach a good position. Can't wait to get out of this thing. It's killing my back.  
  
**********  
  
Angel had to wait until about seven thirty the next night before Les called, and by then he was so jumpy he was in his car and on his way in no time. Not that there was any need to hurry. Lucien was out with a woman, in a fancy dress that shows too much, so take your time, as Les had put it.  
Lock picking wasn't his specialty, but since they were going for inconspicuous, he didn't have much of a choice. He hoped the neighbours stayed inside and minded their own business, and since this was Los Angeles, the chances for that were pretty good. He swirled the little piece of metal inside the lock and smiled when the bolt was taken aside at an early try.  
The hall looked just like the day before, and he proceeded into the study at the right, where he had been using the phone.Then there had been a laptop open at the desk. He was alarmed to find that it wasn't there now, until he spotted it on a small table on the side. Opening it, he search in vain for a power button and finally just pressed an arbitrary button. The screen lit up, and in about a minute he had access to the hard disc. For the rest, he would need Cordelia. He called her number on his cell phone and waited for instructions.  
I'm in, what now? Yeah, I can see it. Uh-huh. He went to the search engine and typed in   
*No file found.*  
Damn. Apparently they had thought it best to let the information on Sierk disappear along with the demon himself. What then?  
There's nothing there, what should I... Search *what* else? None of the dealers that had proven to be involved are important enough for Wolfram and Hart to deal with. He waited for a moment while Cordelia was thinking.  
What do you mean, 'content'? Okay, okay. He rearranged the search program to look for content instead of file names. A few files came up, and he opened the one that said . So, Sierk had been a snitch. Angel browsed through the unimportant details, looking for anything that would tell him about the drug affair the Pythia had claimed Sierk was involved in. There were plenty of cases he had been helpful with, but all entries were brief and told little. Only the last line really called his attention: Dawkins has required his removal.  
Was Dawkins a lawyer or a client? Angel returned to the files that had come up in his latest search and looked for a Dawkins. There it was. Dawkins, June, last file update three days ago. Opening the file, he found the usual biography, accompanied with a photo of someone who looked familiar. As he looked closer, it struck him who he was looking at. Her hair was different and the picture was blurred, but there was no mistaking that vapid look on her face. Owen Madison's bimbo girlfriend. Only it seemed from this file that the description wasn't quite accurate.  
Angel sat back, intrigued by what he read. June Elizabeth Dawkins, b. 1970, m. Owen Madison 1993. So she wasn't just some young girl for sale. She wasn't even all that young. And she had a chemistry degree, who would have thought? Even more alarming than that was what the file told him about her abilities in fields of witchcraft. Angel kept reading and felt like a complete idiot for letting her get away along with her husband. But how was he supposed to have known? He looked for names of the leaders, but although Lucien was a bit on the careless side with his personal computer, he wasn't stupid, and although there were plenty of names of family and associates, there was nothing that said manufacturer of demon-suited drugs.  
Then he found the address in Santa Monica she had told him about the night she left town. Apparently she had found no need to change the outdated information -- or maybe she really had been honest, although he doubted it more now than he had then. There was a list of terms that would have meant nothing to him if he hadn't known so much about demons. He saw the line specializing in Mastema leather. Mastema was a not entirely uncommon type of demon, he knew that much, and he vaguely remembered Wesley mentioning something about their skin being used.  
All of a sudden, the file closed by itself, and Angel gave an irritated sigh. When he tried to open it again, a window opened that said *file inaccessible*. After a few tries, he gave up and moved on to some other files, with the same result. Everything closes, what...  
*You've got mail.*  
He stared at the message, contemplating what to do. Cordy, I just got an e-mail... You sure? Not too happy about this turn of things, he opened it.  
*Who the hell are you?*  
That was all. Angel hurried to turn off the computer. Cordy? I'm heading out.  
On the street, he ran into Les, who was asking bypassers for money.  
Done already?  
Angel shook his head. I ran into some trouble, people might be coming over. I don't think anyone will notice you, but just in case, you might want to move to another street.  
You got it, Les said and held out his hand. Angel placed a coin in it and they went separate ways. Angel wondered what he was to do now. Sure he had found out some new things, but it wasn't really anything useful, since June Dawkins was long gone. Of course, there were the Mastema. From what he remembered, they were quite fierce. Maybe they had a thing or two to say about their skin being ripped off.  
  
**********  
  
Found anything? Cordelia asked when Wesley returned after spending a day at home looking through books.  
Not really. There are obviously many known cases of demons using drugs, but in most modern cases it's the regular kind. The few hints of this trade I could find didn't really tell anything new. How did it go for the rest of you at Madison's place?  
Cordelia nodded towards her desk. No goods, thank God, but we found a few hints on what has been used. She picked up the phone.  
Well, I suppose that could be useful, Wesley said, trying not to show his lack of enthusiasm. I'm not sure it matters if we know the ingredients, though.  
Don't be so sure, Cordelia said, listening to a message on the phone. This is Cordelia Chase of Angel Investigations. I would like to talk to you about how to keep your skin. Call me!  
She hung up and looked at Wesley with a triumphant smile.  
Keep your skin?  
I'm calling the types of demon in the immediate danger zone. Even demons want to stay alive, right?  
Wesley agreed. Good thinking.  
Well, Angel mentioned a thing or two about demon research, and the idea just popped up. He called, by the way, said he'll be back here within a few minutes.  
Wesley's thoughts wandered away in a predictable direction. Where are the others?  
They went to the movies, Cordelia said, calling another number. Hello, Miss Eltha, my name is Cordelia Chase, I work for Angel Investigations. Oh, you've heard of us?  
The movies? Wesley said, feeling a pang of jealousy. Cordelia put her hand over the mouthpiece.  
There was no work for them. You really shouldn't expect Doyle to hang around just for your benefit. Now, if you excuse me, I'm on the phone!  
I don't expect Doyle to do anything! Wesley replied, very upset, but Cordelia only waved a dismissive hand at him. Wesley sat down, and Cordelia couldn't help grinning at his expression.  
Don't sulk, she mouthed.  
Angel did return within a few minutes, and Doyle and Gunn showed up shorty afterwards. Cordelia gave them a quick summary of her efforts. So far, only two have wanted to join up, but they seemed pretty certain others would join them. Both were Mastema. One of them said, and I quote, 'give me one of these guys and I'll eat *his* skin'. Are these guys the eaty sort?  
Wesley said. They eat anything they can get. The females are more likely to prefer meat, but they usually stay away from humans unless they're provoked.  
I'd say they're provoked alright, Doyle said with a slight smile.  
We still have to find the lab, though, Cordelia pointed out. Otherwise there will be nothing for them to eat.  
Nobody is going to eat anybody, Angel said, very irritated. We can't just send a pack of demons on these people!  
I'm not crazy about the idea of an eat-party either, Cordelia said. But if it's either that or letting these jerks loose, I think it's the lesser of two evils.  
No matter what they're doing, they're human, Angel said.  
Which in Angel's world makes all the difference, Doyle said. His chin was leaning in his hands, and his voice was less than friendly.  
Excuse me? Angel said in a voice that warned Doyle not to take this any further. The warning was ignored.  
They're a danger to everyone around them, Angel, not just demons. I'm not giving any special treatment to them just because they have the right genetic codes and bank balances.  
Anxious to get the thunder out of the air, Wesley walked up to Doyle and put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down: It's not about that. Angel can't risk killing a human. But there was no way Doyle could know the full implications of this. He hadn't been there during the dark times.  
Nobody's asking him to. Although Doyle let the hand stay where it was, it had no calming effect on him. These aren't your people, Angel, you're not setting the rules anymore.  
Okay, enough already! Cordelia shouted, slamming both her hands down on the desk. Doyle, I know you've had a crappy time lately, but you're not exactly helping out here, so cut out the attitude! There's nothing as annoying as bitching done by an amateur, and I really don't have time to show you how it's done.  
The guys stared at her, but Doyle did shut up and nodded at her with something resembling amusement. Okay, princess, what's your thought on this?  
Cordelia sat down with a sigh. Well, if we're not going to kill them or let the Mastema do it, we have to destroy the goods, right? Only, if we do that, they'll make more.  
We could mess with their records, Gunn suggested. Change the measurements or something.  
They're bound to have copies, Doyle said, drumming his fingers on his knee in deep thought. Besides, if we don't know what we're doing, we could kill half the clientele.  
There are anti-poison spells, Wesley said, thinking this over. There must be spells to prevent drugs from working as well.  
But how do we get that into their records? Angel asked.  
Computer virus? Cordelia said, sounding rather uncertain.  
Do you know how to make one? Wesley asked, quite positive the answer was 'no'.  
No, but I bet Willow Rosenberg does.  
The others stared at her, stunned. Finally Wesley left Doyle's side and walked up to the phone. I'll call her, he said. He browsed through their address book almost absently.  
I'm not all good looks, I'll have you know, Cordelia said, proud to have come up with a solution that pleased the others, but also annoyed that they were so surprised about it. Oh, and say hi.  
  
**********  
  
It took two weeks before Johnny Trash gave them a call. Willow had been calling every other day to exchange information, and was, according to her own statement, almost there. A place found by a bum in north Pasadena was most likely the lab they were looking for, the question was whether they'd actually be able to verify it.  
The locks aren't just the kind you break open, Angel said to the others after a quick recon. You'll need a key *and* a card -- and I wouldn't be surprised if there's a code as well.  
Well, two out of three isn't bad, Johnny Trash said, and Doyle grinned a little. Angel frowned when he saw it. He didn't like not knowing what Doyle was thinking, and he rarely did these days. What he could guess, he didn't much like. And what was going on with Wesley, for one thing? At this very moment, Wesley was leaning his arm on Doyle's shoulder, his face in deep thought. It was a casual touch that was more than reasonable between friends, but something told him there was more to it than that. They were friends as well, growing closer for each day of these passing weeks, but this other something had been there from day one, and Angel didn't like it.  
Give us a few hours, and we'll sort it out, Doyle told them, still grinning a bit. You'd better get back on the phone with Willow and help her finish the spell virus.  
Are you sure you shouldn't go back too? Wesley asked. He knew better than to mention it, but Doyle had gone out of mental focus twice during the past twenty four hours, and he was worried.  
Johnny knows what to do if something happens, Doyle reminded him, for once letting a comment like that pass. We can't stand a whole bunch out here and wait, it would look suspicious to say the least. And it's going closer to dawn by the second, he added as Angel was about to say something.  
Angel shut his mouth and nodded , not very happy about it. he asked.  
Yeah, sure, I'll hang around, Gunn said, sitting down on a rail to prove the point.  
Wesley's expression when they left to go back to the hotel was so telling Cordelia couldn't help grinning. She leaned in and told him, It could be worse, you know. He could be back there with me. Gunn's the one person in this agency he's made no attempt of seducing.  
Will you stop making suggestive remarks! Wesley managed to keep his voice low in spite of his apparent anger. Cordelia just gave him a Sphinx-like smile.  
Hey, if my exes decide they like each other, I'm entitled to some sort of revenge.  
  
But Cordelia just smiled again.  
  
**********  
  
When Doyle and Gunn returned, Doyle casually dropped a magnetic card and a bunch of keys on the reception desk. Angel had a strange feeling this was a peace offering.  
You should have seen them, Gunn said, sitting down. He shook his head in admiration. Johnny starts asking this man for money, Doyle comes up to get Johnny off the guy -- and before you know it, they're both coming back with the inside of his pockets. I've never seen anyone work that smooth.  
You stole his wallet? Angel said, wishing it hadn't come out the way it did.  
And a few other things. Doyle's face darkened. You never said anything about no stealing. As I recall, you're not against that sort of thing yourself.  
I'm not... Stealing from a crook was one thing. But if Doyle was a craftsman at this, it was quite another. Is that what you have been doing for a living? Stealing?  
Doyle stood silent for a few seconds, then he sighed. I'm sorry, Angel, this isn't working out. He turned around an left for the door.  
Where are you going? Wesley asked, putting a hand on Doyle's arm to stop him from leaving the room.  
Getting a job.  
Who'd hire you? Angel asked and immediately regretted it. Everything he said seemed to be the wrong thing. Doyle just gave him a dark glance and left, brushing past Wesley in the process. Wesley jumped as a hand touched his behind, and then Doyle was gone.  
There was a moment of silence, and then Angel shrugged. It had come to the end he had tried to avoid, and what he wanted to do was go punch something, but they still had work to do. He walked up to the phone and dialled Willow's number. Will? It's Angel? How's it... you are? Great. Biblical phrases? Yeah, I'm sure we could learn those. Uh-huh. He scribbled down the verses she mentioned on a post-it note. Okay, but you can do your part of the job without these? Thank you very much.  
He hung up the phone and gave half a smile to the others. She's done. The disc will be coming in the post tomorrow or the next day. All we have to do is learn a few Biblical verses.  
I'll check them up, Wesley said, to the others' surprise, and took the post-it note. He needed to do something to keep himself from running after Doyle, and research seemed to be the best available option. he asked, hoping it wouldn't be.  
  
That was better. Wesley sat down with a Versio Vulgata and tried not to think of Doyle at all. Since Willow had been detailed in reference, it was a simple job, and he soon had all the verses in front of him, repeating them quietly over and over.  
Cordelia sat down next to him. Care to come out for coffee with us?  
He repeated two of the verses from the Psalm he was learning, with his hand covering the note. Scuto circumdabit te veritas ejus: non timebis a timore nocturno: a sagitta volante in die, a negotio perambulante in tenebris: ab incursu, et daemonio meridiano. Taking away his hand, he checked with the text. Word for word.  
Cordelia frowned. Do we really have to learn them by heart?  
No, but it helps if we're fluid. He noticed her expression and smiled. It's not that difficult.  
Not for you who know Latin. She kicked with her legs against the chair. So, coffee?  
Yes, of course. Wesley stood up and reached for his wallet in his back pocket, but stopped short. Oh second thought, I think I'll go look for Doyle.  
Cordelia protested. You might have wanted to try that when he left.  
Yes, well, I wanted to give him some time on his own.  
Yeah, right, like half an hour. How are you going to find him, anyway?  
Wesley took his car keys from the drawer and turned back to Cordelia. I'll be back later. Tell Angel to help you with the verses, his Latin is almost as good as mine.  
Cordelia sunk back into the chair and watched Wesley leave. she muttered. The rats flee the ship.  
  
**********  
  
Three hours later Wesley stepped into the shelter, where Doyle was sitting cross-legged reading a brochure. He looked up when Wesley entered and his eyes widened, seeming both pleased and offended at once.  
How did you know I was here? he asked, making room for Wesley on the sofa where he was sitting.  
I didn't. I asked the major to call me if you came in, and she did.  
For a second, the offence in Doyle's face won over the pleasure. You're keeping check on me?  
No, I'm keeping check on my wallet, which I believe you have. Wesley raised an eyebrow at Doyle, who nodded slowly and took the wallet from the pocket of his jacket.  
I'm sorry about that. I didn't want to leave without money, and I couldn't very well ask Angel, could I?  
You didn't *ask* me either. Wesley accepted the wallet and looked it through. When he had counted the money he looked up, confused. There's thirty dollars more in it than it was when you took it.  
Twenty, actually. There was a tenner in the lid for photos.  
Wesley tried not to smile, but didn't succeed very well. You gambled with my money?  
Just a little bit, to pay for the bribes.  
Which bribes?  
Oh, to pretty much everyone I asked for a job. Doyle sighed and looked down, folding up the brochure to have something to do with his fingers.  
Wesley was stunned. He had thought Doyle's expressed wish to find a job was just something he had said to annoy Angel, but it seemed there was more to it than that. Did it help?  
Doyle shook his head. Angel's right. Who'd hire a drunken half-demon nutcase?  
Wesley thought about that and shrugged. Lorne might.  
Who's Lorne? Doyle asked, obviously taking the suggestion seriously.  
The question surprised Wesley. You've never been to Caritas?  
Doyle shook his head, looking hopeful, and Wesley started to wonder if Lorne would actually hire him. It was worth a try, at least. Then I guess that's where we're going. You haven't been drinking *now*, have you? It was usually impossible to tell when Doyle had been drinking, but there was enough to ruin the first impression as it was.  
Doyle tilted his head and looked at Wesley as if he thought very little of his brains, but there was tenderness in his eyes. If I had gone into a pub, I'd still be there, wouldn't I?  
Good point. They were both grinning now, feeling slightly thrilled like children on holiday. Doyle threw the crumpled-up brochure in the trash can and followed Wesley to the car. As they were riding towards Caritas, Wesley thought of something and snorted. And I actually thought you were groping me.  
If you want me to, I don't mind groping you, Doyle volunteered, eyes glittering.  
Wesley didn't dare to look at him, but threw him a glance in the rear view mirror, shaking his head Here it is, he said, glad to get out of the embarrassing situation. He stopped the car, and they both went inside. While Doyle looked around, Wesley's eye caught the Host's, who waved for them to come over.  
Hello, Wesley, he said, looking curiously at Doyle. Who is this?  
A friend of mine, Doyle. Doyle, this is Lorne.  
Nice to meet you, Doyle said and shook the Host's hand. The Host looked very interested.  
Doyle the dead guy?  
Doyle the resurrected guy, Wesley corrected. He needs a job, do you have something?  
The Host bit his lip. I don't know. What do you do?  
Doyle said, rubbing his chin. I'm good at maths, particularly if it has to do with poker, and I've had some experience in the fighting area. I'm good with nine-year-old children, too, but I doubt there will be any of those in here.  
And he's a master at talking to people, Wesley filled in, and Doyle smiled.  
That's his opinion. Listen, I'd take anything. Cleaning up, filling stocks... it's not like I have a lot to choose from.  
Because you're part demon? the Host asked.  
Well, that I can hide if I want to, Doyle said. It's more the fact that I've spent quite some time dead or on the street. It's hard to explain to people.  
I can imagine, the Host said. Can you sing?  
Not well enough to perform, Doyle said cautiously.  
Oh, you don't have to perform. Just sing.  
  
Yes, please.  
Doyle looked at Wesley, who nodded to show he should do as the Host asked. Confused but cooperative, Doyle shrugged and started singing. His voice was nothing special, but at least he sang in tune: Oh citizens, hear me singing, I'm sitting in the dust. It's the wrong time for music, but I feel like I must. I'm filled up with sadness, I'm in a dirty mood. Tomorrow it might be better, but it'll never be good. Tomorrow it might be better, but it'll never be good.  
The Host looked thoughtfully at Doyle, and Wesley held his breath, grateful Doyle didn't know just how much his singing had said. Yeah, okay, I could use some more help. How about a little bit of everything for the next couple of weeks, and then we'll see what will suit you best?  
That would be... great, Doyle said with a stunned smile.  
Seven fifty an hour? To start with?  
  
Okay, then. You can start tomorrow.  
Thank you. Doyle shook the Host's hand and, still smiling, hugged Wesley. And thank you, too. He repeated his thanks to the Host enthusiastically.  
All I need now is somewhere to stay, he told Wesley as they stepped outside. Don't get me wrong, I'm still in the game, but I don't think I can stand living in the Hyperion even with a job.  
You can stay at my place, Wesley suggested. I mean... I understand if you don't want to repeat the situation you've had with Angel...  
Oh, I'm not worried about that, Doyle said. If it's a serious offer, I'd be glad to take it.  
It's a serious offer, Wesley said. He added, But I'm afraid it's also a serious dump.  
Wouldn't be the first one. Doyle grinned again, and Wesley began to wonder if this had really been a good decision.  
  



	5. 

**********  
  
Love is the answer, but while you're waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty good questions.  
--Woody Allen  
  
**********  
  
As it happened, neither of them returned to the Hyperion that day. Instead they sat in Wesley's living room and talked about nothing and everything until after dark. Finally, Doyle found himself yawning and smiled at Wesley. It's getting late, isn't it?  
Wesley hadn't even noticed the hour, but now he had to agree with Doyle. Do you want to go to bed?  
Not until I've convinced you of U2's greatness. Just let me take a leak, will you?  
Wesley waited restlessly for Doyle to return, trying to keep his mind on music and books rather than on his houseguest. He put a nail in his mouth and almost bit his fingertip off when a thud was heard from the lavatory.  
he asked, and when nobody replied, he rushed up and knocked on the door, repeating Doyle's name. From inside came sounds of deep breaths, interrupted by another thud.  
Are you okay? The door wasn't locked, and Wesley only hesitated for a few seconds before he opened it.  
Even though Wesley had theoretically been well aware of Doyle's demon features, it was quite another thing to actually see them. Nevertheless, Wesley didn't find them as alarming as the fact that Doyle was pounding his fists on the mirror and in serious danger of breaking it and maybe hurting himself. When Wesley put a hand on his shoulder, Doyle spun around and yelled, Stay away from me, Harry! He buried his face in his arms, protective both of himself and of the man he mistook for his wife. Don't look at me, he sobbed, shaking like a leaf.  
Wesley withdrew his hand, but only for a second. Then he put both of them down, holding Doyle's shoulders in something that was almost a hug, and speaking calmly to him. I've seen demons before, Doyle. He let his hand run over Doyle's face while he was talking. Although he wasn't sure if Doyle would realize what he was doing or still think it was Harry, he knew that Doyle reacted to what was going on around him during a hallucination. Whatever interpretation Doyle made of this, he calmed noticeably, and it didn't take very long until he drew a deep breath and shook off his demon face.  
I think I will go to bed anyway, he said, brushing the hair away from his face.  
Wesley said, showing the way into the bedroom. He'd rather take the couch himself than make Doyle sleep on it after this. Doyle started to pull off his clothes within seconds, and Wesley drew back towards the door. I'll leave you alone now.  
The one word made Wesley stop short, and Doyle looked up, jeans already off and shirt halfway open. Where are you going to sleep?  
Out there, Wesley said, indicating the living room.  
Don't be silly. There's room for another in this bed. I'm a small guy.  
I really don't think that's a good idea, Wesley started, and Doyle walked up to him, standing slightly closer than courtesy allowed.  
Don't you?  
And this time it was no double entendre, and no chance to escape by pretending Doyle wasn't suggesting what he was, because hands were unbuttoning Wesley's shirt, and he swallowed, not wanting to want this. Doyle, you're still confused...  
Wesley Wyndham Pryce, Doyle said, removing the shirt and not even flinching at the many marks on Wesley's body from burns, cuts, shots and Lord knows what, ex-Watcher, ex-demon hunter, current warrior for all things good in Angel Investigations, I am not confused. Are you?  
Wesley shook his head silently and dropped his pants before lying down on the bed. There was no point in thinking of reservations at this stage. He expected Doyle to follow, but the Irishman remained by the bed, tilting his head. I didn't think so. Condoms?  
Wesley asked, not because he hadn't heard, but because he couldn't believe Doyle would go from caressing his chest to asking for prophylactics in less than ten seconds.  
Condoms. Do you have any? For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty came over Doyle. You've done this before, haven't you?  
Wesley correctly interpreted the question as referring to gay sex and not sex in general, in which case he would have had to be offended. But he kept silent about just how long it had been since the last time. Condoms he kept for his occasional interaction with women, but the lubricant next to it was like a teddybear in the bookshelf -- not there to be used, but leaving an empty space if thrown out. They're in the bathroom cabinet.  
The mere minute before Doyle came back with condoms and lubricant seemed like an eternity. The moment he did, Wesley pulled him into bed, forgetting his hesitation for the chance to touch that smooth skin. Doyle replied by bowing down his head and softly biting a nipple that was underlined by a scar Faith had once put there.  
It's okay, isn't it? Doyle asked when Wesley drew a shaky breath at the touch.  
The confirmative was short, since the long version was far too complex to use. Yes, it's okay that you draw your tongue over those places that have known nothing but pain for so long. It's okay that your bites show that there's more than one kind of pain, and that even if it feels awfully strange having someone play lunchtime with one's body, it's a nice strangeness.  
Doyle waited for a longer reply, but when he didn't get it he just shrugged. The next moment he lifted his head again and gave Wesley a playful smack.  
Roll over.  
Lying down like this, Wesley couldn't salute, but he managed an ironic Yes, sir! before doing as Doyle asked. This meant he could no longer touch Doyle like he wanted to, but that didn't matter, because those hands on his body was enough. Slowly, he allowed himself to relax and lose control. For once, he felt completely safe. With Doyle covering him like this, nothing could ever hurt him. Then Doyle entered him, and he moaned in a delight that accelerated until love, pain and loneliness disappeared and all he was aware of was their two bodies together. Shortly afterwards he felt Doyle's hands roughen, and he knew that if he had been able to look up at this moment, he would be met by red glowing eyes, but that didn't matter. Nothing else mattered anymore, and when the act itself was over and he lay still feeling Doyle's mouth on his shoulders, he realized there were tears on his face. For once, he felt no need to apologize for them.  
The weight on top of him shifted and disappeared, and he rolled over on his side. Where are you going?  
Just cleaning up, Doyle said, throwing the used condom in the trash before returning to bed. He lay down next to Wesley, and when they were facing each other like this, the bed didn't seem too small at all. Doyle buried his head in Wesley's neck and started nibbling again, and Wesley laughed.  
You really like biting, don't you? he said, making small circles on Doyle's arms with his fingers.  
I'd make a wicked vampire, Doyle replied. He yawned a little and found a comfortable position. Wesley continued his caresses and felt Doyle relax. After a few minutes, he no longer got any replies when he spoke. Letting his arms rest around the other man's body, he felt as if he was the one to be held, just by Doyle's breaths on his necks. And those breaths put him to sleep.  
  
**********  
  
Somebody was muttering in Wesley's ear. As soon as he had woken up, he realized that it was Doyle, who slept restlessly. Wesley smiled when a hand hit him in the face, and he caught it, kissing its fingers gently. He snuggled closer to Doyle and rolled them both over, so that he could get out of bed without waking the other man up.  
It wasn't until he entered the kitchen that the satisfied feeling from the night disappeared and was replaced with panic. What had he been thinking, to jump into bed with Doyle like that? Granted, Doyle had been the one to initiate it, but Doyle had made it perfectly clear that he didn't care what anyone thought. Turning on the stove to make coffee, he kept thinking his options over, but it all came down to one problem: he didn't know what Doyle wanted with him, apart from the obvious. Then the doorbell rang and he made a wry face as he went to put his dressing gown on. He wasn't ready to deal with anyone today.  
And he certainly wasn't ready to deal with Angel. The sight of the vampire standing in the doorway almost made him shut the door. He forced out a , and Angel gave him a strange look.  
I was worried when neither of you showed up last night.  
Well, here I am.  
Angel's eyes didn't leave him. And Doyle?  
There was no way to lie to a person who could smell a lover on you, but Wesley wasn't ready to tell the truth either. He got a job at Caritas last night.  
Angel said, at least partially distracted, and Wesley nodded. He couldn't meet the vampire's gaze.  
Listen, I've got water boiling on the stove...  
Angel sighed. Will you do me a favour? Ask him to call his mother. Since you obviously get along better with him than I do.   
Not knowing what to say, Wesley nodded, and Angel left without another word. Wesley groaned as he shut the door before returning to the kitchen. This was really the last thing he needed.  
Doyle was already waiting for him in the kitchen, more naked than not. he said, putting an arm around Wesley's body and attempting to kiss him. Wesley stepped back and took the pot off the stove. Although he didn't look at Doyle, he could feel the wounded glance.  
Do you want coffee? he asked.  
Yeah, sure. Doyle walked up beside the stove so Wesley had no choice but to look at him. Listen, about last night...  
Wesley braced himself for what would come, not sure what he feared or hoped for.  
You're my friend, so if you want us to forget all about it, I can do that. But to be honest, I would think it an awful pity.  
Wesley nodded slowly. Me too.  
So what's this all about, then?  
I don't want this, Wesley said, and Doyle looked as if he had been kicked in the stomach, but he nodded.  
  
No, that's not what I meant. I want you. But I don't want... He struggled with the words. I haven't been with a man since university.  
Doyle's eyes widened. And I thought my sex life was bad.  
I've had sex, just not with men. I like women, why should it be so hard to stick to them?  
Doyle sat down on the kitchen table. Probably because your body refuses to listen to that homophobic little superego of yours, and I must admit I'm grateful for that.  
You're not taking this seriously, Wesley said, getting angry.  
I am. But I doubt Angel's objections will have anything to do with the fact that we're both men. And nobody's sending you to Hell for this, trust me. So if you want me as much as I want you, he moved in closer and took Wesley's shoulder, I really don't see a problem.  
The last time I allowed myself to fall in love with a boy, Wesley said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice although not succeeding very well, we were found out, and I ended up being told by my father in no uncertain terms that if I persisted in this kind of foolishness I would no longer be allowed to contact my family. He ran his fingers through his hair. My sister still can't look me in the eye, but at least I get to talk to her.  
Doyle didn't move, just looked at Wesley, shocked. He said that? he whispered, slowly letting his arms sink. Then I suppose it makes sense... if you don't think it's worth it.  
Wesley grabbed Doyle's elbows to stop him from drawing back. I don't know if it's worth it, Doyle. I can't bear the thought of never touching you again. So it seems I have two impossible choices.  
But if I were to, say, take you into my mouth right here, right now, Doyle said, moving in closer, nobody's around to disown you, yeah?  
Wesley knew that he wouldn't be able to stop at that, but the bare mentioning made him hard, and right now it would be worth anything. He kissed Doyle deeply and nodded with both of their heads, getting a muffled giggle in response. Then Doyle let go of his mouth and worked his way down.  
I'm not sure I should let you do this, Wesley said, playing with Doyle's hair, considering how fond you are of biting me.  
Laughing blue eyes looked up for a moment. Relax, Wes, I've done this before.  
Wesley kept talking to keep his head cool.   
Doyle replied, something that could be interpreted as affirmative. He was now by the waistline and moving down so slowly Wesley thought he would go crazy.  
So, how long would you say it has... Ow! Wesley looked down. I thought you said you wouldn't bite me.  
Actually, I didn't, Doyle pointed out. Now, do you want a conversation or may I use my mouth for other things? He took Wesley's cock in his hand and rubbed it gently, waiting for a reply. When he got nothing from Wesley but a moan, he grinned and got to work. He started out gently, but soon pressed harder, and not until the final seconds did he take his lips away from his teeth to use them as well.  
You're good, Wesley said when he could speak again.  
Doyle, who was resting at the floor, grinned a little. I told you I had done it before.  
Dear God, yes. Wesley sat down next to Doyle and leaned his head towards the wall. You must have had an excellent teacher.  
Nah, just lots of experience, Doyle said with a grimace.  
Wesley looked up, thoughtful. He didn't know how to ask the next question, but couldn't help doing it anyway. What sort of experience? Seeing Doyle's expression, he added, I mean, I know there aren't that many ways to get by on the street, and...  
No, Wesley, I didn't, Doyle said, but he didn't seem upset by the question. I've begged, stolen and gone through people's trash, but I was never a hustler.  
Wesley, embarrassed by situation, tried to apologize: I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...  
No, it's okay. It's not like I never thought about it. I just didn't like the thought of going with a guy and then maybe lose my mind in the middle of things. He frowned, and Wesley started massaging his neck to make him relax. I've done it with strangers in public places, just never for money. If you're thinking about getting tested...  
I wasn't.  
We probably should. Doyle looked up to meet Wesley's eyes, and Wesley sighed.  
Not the perfect day-after conversation.  
Doyle said with a smile. Since we did it a second time.  
It would be a third if I returned the favour, Wesley aid, moving in closer.  
I'd rather you didn't, Doyle said, standing up.  
Wesley at first got confused and hurt, then something dawned at him. Because you'd turn?  
Not the hottest thing in the universe to see during sex, Doyle said, going back into the bedroom for his clothes. Wesley followed him.  
It is to me. For a second, Wesley panicked at the words coming out of his mouth, but then he decided he didn't regret them. Not one bit.  
They looked at each other silently, and then Doyle shook off the glance and reached down for his pants. We'd better get back to Angel's. I still have my clothes there, and I bet there's work to do. How's that coffee?  
Wesley had completely forgotten about the coffee. Cold, I suspect.  
Well, it can't be any worse than Cordelia's. Doyle put on his clothes and returned to where Wesley was standing, giving him a quick peck on the mouth. Get dressed. We've got work to do.  
  
**********  
  
They arrived at the Hyperion like teenagers with a new hairdo, not sure if it's too much or if people won't notice at all. Gunn seemed to be of the latter category, while Cordelia gave them a brilliant smile of the same Sphinx-like style she used so often lately. Although Wesley was more than pleased with the way things had developed, her immense satisfaction of being right did annoy him. As for Angel -- well, he didn't kick them right out again, but he didn't look all that happy either.  
We received the disc from Willow, he said. You could go right now, if you want. Of course, then I won't be able to come with you.  
I'm not sure you *should* come with us, Wesley said, looking critically at the vampire. You don't quite have the looks of a scientist or warlock. Then again, neither did the others, and he frowned. Cordelia could come, of course, in a nice pant suit, but...  
You're not leaving me here? Doyle said, and Gunn looked equally offended.  
Maybe with a haircut, Cordelia said, regarding Doyle's hair that he still hadn't bothered about cutting. Or not. I can't even picture you doing research. Gunn could probably pass, though.  
Wesley didn't like the thought of Angel and Doyle being alone in the Hyperion. With the way things were going, they might just rip each other's throats out. Probably not literally, but you never knew.  
Here's a thought, Gunn said. You two get started in there, and if you need help, give me a call. Okay?  
Sounds good, Wesley said, grateful to get off so easily.  
Cordelia seemed even more relieved than he did, but not until they were well on their way did he understand why.  
So, you did have sex last night, yeah? She was putting on makeup and gave him an irritated glance in the rear view mirror when her question forced him to steer away from a lamp post he had almost hit. Watch how you're driving, will you? This isn't an audition for 'It'.  
That is certainly none of your business, Wesley said, answering her first question.  
That means yes. She grinned. Whohoo! Love emerges at the AI office!  
We're not in love! Wesley protested. We just had sex.  
But you're living together.  
As roommates.  
Roommates who have sex. Yeah, why not. Freakier things have happened.  
Wesley took a deep breath. Why are you so pleased about all this?  
What, aren't you? she asked, examining her face in the mirror. She had managed to get away the smears and now looked like a highly prosperous businesswoman.  
Yes, well, that's different, Wesley said and deliberately got crude. You didn't have your cock sucked this morning.  
Cordelia grimaced. I *so* didn't want to know that.  
Then exactly what is it you're interested in?  
Well, whether or not you two plan to stick together, for one thing. If I can count Doyle as off my case.  
I think he's been off your case ever since he came back, Wesley said cautiously, not sure of what Cordelia's opinion on this was.  
I know. It's just... I couldn't be quite sure. What if deep down he still wanted me? She rolled her eyes to show that she knew what a cheesy line that was. I mean, back then I could have loved him, no question about it, but we never got to that point, did we? A bit of flirting hardly makes me his mourning widow. Not to mention that a lot has been going on lately.  
You don't say, Wesley mumbled.  
And, you know, yeah, of course I wonder why both of you are suddenly going gay when you've been hitting on me before. But it's not like I caused it or anything.  
I think we can safely assume that, Wesley said with a smile. I've been with men since long before I met you.  
Hm. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes when Gunn finds out you're keeping that kind of secret from him, Cordelia said.  
Wesley winced. Gunn was his best friend, and he was more than grateful that the issue of homosexuality had never come up between them. Men who had never had any sexual experience with their own sex tended to react in a less than amiable way when they found out their friends had. Fortunately, Cordelia didn't keep up this subject.  
What if they have changed the locks? she asked instead, as they came closer to the laboratory.  
They haven't, Wesley said. We've had people keep watch outside. You know that.  
Yeah, well, they could still have done it, Cordelia said. She sighed and drummed her foot on the floor. What are you going to call yourself if someone asks?  
Wesley hadn't thought of that and answered the first thing that entered his head: Igor Sullivan.  
Cordelia forgot how nervous she was and started to laugh. Igor Sullivan? You can't be called that!  
Sure I can. I'll just hope they haven't seen The Cactus Flower. He shrugged. It's not as if we were suppose to socialize with them anyway. If all goes well, nobody will ask for our names.  
Alright then, she agreed. You'll be Igor Sullivan. Who will I be?  
My wife Antonia, of course.  
If I'm your wife, I want a divorce.  
he asked, parking outside the lab.  
Because you sleep with other men, she stated and left the car. For a moment, Wesley was stunned, but then he laughed and followed her.  
Here goes nothing, Cordelia said, burying her nails in Wesley's arm. It hurt, but Wesley felt like doing the same, so he said nothing. While Cordelia tried the card, he turned the key in the other lock, feeling the click that told him the lock was undone.  
Wes? Problem. They want a password.  
Wesley grimaced. Okay, any ideas?  
Random numbers until they kick us out? Blasting the lock? Open, Sesame?  
The lock beeped, and she stared at it. I don't believe this.  
Well, it *is* a real spell, Wesley said, hurrying to open the door.  
Is 'abracadabra' real too? 'Or 'hocus pocus'?  
No it isn't. And yes, in a way, Wesley replied, leading Cordelia into the building. There were lengthy corridors everywhere, but with oaken walls and deep red curtains that gave them a remarkably lived-in look. It didn't look like an office, much less a laboratory. On the contrary, it was like something out of The Ghost of Canterville. Alright, Antonia, my dear, any ideas as to direction?  
No, Igor, none. There are bound to be computers everywhere, can't we just pick one? She looked thoughtful. They're going to want a password for that too, aren't they?  
Your friend Willow has taken care of that, Wesley said.  
She's not my friend! And good. Then I suggest we get started.  
They walked down the corridors and Cordelia opened a door to a room that appeared to be empty. Unlike the corridors, its furnishing was the usual for an office. They had only taken a few steps inside when a middle-aged woman showed up, looking very surprised. Who are you? What are you doing here?  
Wesley searched his mind for something to say, but it was Cordelia who was the first to remember a name. My name is Antonia Sullivan, I'm looking for June Dawkins?  
She's not around anymore, the woman said, looking very surprised. Who sent you?  
Wesley said, remembering the name of the dealer he had met.  
Really? Well, he's downstairs.  
Fine, then we'll go looking for him, Cordelia said, dragging Wesley with her before the woman had time to ask any more questions. They heard her protests and hurried down another corridor.  
Not downstairs, I take it? Cordelia asked, and Wesley shook his head with emphasis.  
Hold on, he said a few seconds later, pulling her aside while he was peeking through a half-open door, leading to another office, somewhat less formal than the first, but more so than the corridors. Pleased with what he saw, he hauled Cordelia forward. This is empty. Do you have the disc?  
Well, if I didn't this little exercise would be pointless, wouldn't it? Cordelia said, pulling the disc from her purse. Wesley had already seated himself by the computer, so she had to be content with hanging over his shoulder after putting the disc into its slot. The computer seemed to take forever to get started. They're compatible, right? she asked.  
Of course. Willow knows what she's doing. Wesley may have sounded calmer than Cordelia, but he was just as relieved as she was when the perky little icons showed up in front of him, and Willow's wicca disc was among them.  
Cordy, watch the door, Wesley said. The installation itself was easy, but the chants demanded his sort of talent more than hers.  
She willingly placed herself between the computer and the door. What do I do if someone comes?  
Flirt a bit with them, and then kick them really hard and drop a heavy object on their heads. Qui habitat in adjutorio Altissimi, in protectione Dei commorabitur...  
Like this? she asked, holding up a paper-weight made of glass.  
Perfect. Please don't interrupt me. Dicet Domino: Susceptor meus es tu, et refugium meum...  
she said, getting comfortable in her position, leaning on the bookshelf with the paper-weight behind her back. A few minutes later, Wesley finished his chanting and ejected the disc again. He couldn't see any results, but then again, that was quite the point.  
Ready to go? he asked Cordelia, who nodded and put the paper-weight in her purse.  
I think I'll keep this. Gives a good swing.  
Let's hope you don't need it, Wesley said, and they hurried to leave the room, trying to look as if they belonged in this place. It worked well through the first corridor, but then a group of people came up from the stairs to the basement, and among them Wesley recognized Sam Hartnell. There was no time to turn back, they had already been seen.  
he said, grabbing Cordelia's hand and starting towards the exit.   
The fastest of the people reached them, and Cordelia swung.  
  



	6. 

**********  
  
A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal  
-- Oscar Wilde  
  
**********  
  
Doyle was obviously in a defiant mood, and Angel didn't want to fight him, but then again, he didn't know what else to do. This whole thing between Wesley and Doyle infuriated him. He had seen that Wesley had been taken with Doyle, but to actually take advantage of Doyle's confusion was just so utterly unlike him. The trouble was that the alternative was even worse, if Doyle had initiated this as a means to prove his independency of Angel. Okay, so Doyle had proved his point, that he could sleep with anyone he very well liked and there was nothing Angel could do about it. It didn't change the fact that someone would get hurt and that this was a damn stupid thing to do.  
Gunn was sitting with a cup of coffee looking through the files of a minor case. He refused to let the bad attitude of the others bother him and didn't say much. All in all, it was a situation that couldn't last for long. Doyle was the one to finally speak up.  
Listen, if you're going to put me in the corner for bad behaviour at least bloody say that! I don't think I've deserved the silent treatment.  
You've clearly stated that your personal life is none of my business, Angel said calmly, not meeting Doyle's eyes. I'm simply following your wishes.  
Well, is there no status between misled child and leper that you could reserve for me?  
Angel took a deep, angry breath. What is it you want from me? When I care, you go ballistic, and when I leave you alone it's the same thing.  
I want... Doyle shouted, unable to say anything else. Then he relaxed, an his voice was back to normal when he replied, I want you to admit the possibility that I might do something right on my own.  
I never said you couldn't, Angel replied in defense. I'm glad you found a job. And moving out was probably a good idea. But going straight from us into Wesley's bed? Why did you have to go do something incredibly stupid like that?  
Gunn had been more or less ignoring them, but at the mentioning of Wesley's bed he looked up in shock. The other two were too angry to even notice.  
Because it's what I want, Angel, Doyle said. I didn't do it to rebel, I'm not fifteen. I did it because I wanted to feel him under me. I did it because running my mouth over every part of his body felt better than anything I've done for years. Let me tell you something about Wesley, Angel. He's not just smart and well-behaved and good with a crossbow. He's a pretty good lay, too.  
Gunn yelled, clearly told much more than he wanted to know at this point. Slamming down the file, he left the lobby to go outside. Doyle silenced and watched Angel like a cat on its guard.  
And telling me those details? Angel finally asked. What was that all about?  
Doyle opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. There was a strange expression on his face, something that might be interpreted as remorse. I need some change.  
Angel was puzzled by this until Doyle clarified, Do you have some I can borrow?  
You want me to loan you *money*? he asked, disbelieving.  
Just some change. Whatever Doyle had in mind, it was clearly important, and although Angel wasn't ready to give up the fight, he found himself handing Doyle slightly less than a dollar in small coins.  
Doyle said, hurrying outside before Angel even had time to ask what was going on. When he had gotten himself together enough to follow, he couldn't find Doyle, just Gunn that sat on the sidewalk looking as if he had been tackled by an elephant. Well, that was a later problem.  
Where did he go? Angel asked, and Gunn nodded down the street. Some distance away there was a payphone, and as Angel watched, Doyle finished his conversation and hung up, but without leaving the booth. Angel started to walk up to him, but before he was fully there, the phone rang and Doyle yanked it off the hook so fast he almost dropped it.  
...thought you'd faint just from hearing my voice, Angel heard Doyle say as he came closer, and he stopped, uncertain of what to do.  
Oh, he did, did he? Doyle looked up at Angel, and although his expression was annoyed, there was also sympathy mixed into it.  
Your mother? Angel mouthed, and when Doyle nodded he returned to the sidewalk, giving them some privacy. He sat down next to Gunn, who still seemed rather shook up by the revelation.  
Did you know? he asked in a low voice. About Wesley being...  
To Angel, there were many things to disapprove of in this, but souled or not he was a vampire, to which sex was a question of dominance instead of reproduction. The thought that Gunn could feel threatened by any of this had never occurred to him, and he didn't quite know the answer to Gunn's question.  
I never smelled a man on him until today, he finally said. He wondered if he was supposed to mention the times he had smelled arousal, but decided against it. That was none of Gunn' business anyway.  
Oh. Well, I guess you would know. Gunn still seemed like he was about to be sick, so they just sat there, waiting for Doyle to finish his conversation or the others to return.  
As it happened, the car pulled into the driveway before Doyle had made any sign of putting away the phone. Both Angel and Gunn stood up as Cordelia and Wesley got out of the car.  
How did it go? Angel asked Cordelia, who lit up in triumph.  
We did it! Of course, they discovered we weren't supposed to be there a little bit too soon for my liking, but since we got away, who's complaining, right? I'm just hoping they didn't take our license number.  
Wesley listened to her with a proud and amused smile, that quickly disappeared when Gunn, keeping a distance, asked him, Why the hell didn't you tell me you were gay?  
Wesley paled, and he looked over at Angel, wanting an explanation. Did Doyle...  
He's over there, talking to his mother, Angel said, nodding in the direction of the payphone. We had a bit of a fall-out.  
I see. Wesley's eyes traveled back to Gunn, and he was desperately trying to figure out what to say. He wished that Doyle hadn't told the others. Granted, Angel already knew, but he would never have brought it up in public unless Doyle did first. And Doyle -- damn him, he *knew* Wesley wasn't ready for any of this! Gunn's eyes were hard to read, but there was definitely revulsion in that mix of emotion, and Wesley knew he couldn't take it one more time. Not from his best friend. Gunn, I'm sorry. I'm not actually... But his mind was still with Doyle, who was standing a few yards away oblivious of what was going on, and he gave up the excuses. It never came up.  
Don't you give me that! Gunn replied. Being gay is a little bit to big a thing to 'never come up'. You've seen me *naked*, for crying out loud!  
Gunn, please, I've seen Cordelia naked as well. I'm not a sex maniac. It would probably not do any good to inform Gunn that he'd never been attracted to him. Found him attractive, yes, but that wasn't the same.  
We're friends, Wesley!  
Present tense. At least that was something. I'm sorry. I suppose I should have told you. He reached out to put his hand at Gunn's shoulder, and Gunn automatically took half a step backwards to avoid the touch. Wesley let his hand fall down, mortified. I see.  
No, you fucking don't. I'm not going to complain about how you run your life, and Doyle's a good enough guy. I just don't want you to touch me right now.  
Wesley nodded slowly. So we're... cool?  
Gunn glared at him. You lied to me. We're nowhere near cool.  
  
**********  
  
That night, after Doyle had finished his first hours of work, they were sitting in Wesley's kitchen, sipping some coffee. Wesley didn't know what else Doyle had poured into it, and he didn't want to know either.  
He wanted Doyle to explain it all, and at the same time he wanted Doyle to say nothing at all, to simply take him into his mouth like he had done in the morning. As it was, neither of them spoke at all for a very long time.  
Christ, I'm so sorry, Doyle finally sighed, and Wesley turned to look at him, silently. Not that the others know -- I think it's probably for the best, even though I know you don't agree with me. But they shouldn't have found out like this. The way I threw it at Angel just to hurt him... well, you deserve better than that.  
Wesley said quietly. He hadn't meant to, but he didn't regret it.  
I used to do that to my mum, you know. Doyle took a deep gulp from his cup, and then stood up, pacing the room. After my demon surfaced, I'd call her and tell her about my gambles and my one-night stands.  
Wesley winced, but hoped he hadn't let it show. Was that why you called her today?  
I guess. Doyle's face was suddenly lit up by a smile. At least this time I had something good to tell her.  
About us? Wesley felt like he was going to faint. You told your *mother* about us?  
Doyle misunderstood the reason for Wesley's reaction. I didn't say your name or anything, just that I'd met this guy.  
Wesley asked. He was frightened at the devotion Doyle seemed willing to put into this, but also in a strange way very happy. I thought we were just...  
What? Fucking? I've told you, it's up to you. Doyle sighed deeply. Listen, I know I've been an arse. You didn't exactly choose Prince Charming to go to bed with you. I've done some incredibly stupid things in my day, and I can just hope that you want me even though I'm an arse... because I only have to say 'arse' to want yours.  
He was standing within inches from Wesley now, and Wesley rose to pull him even closer. You can have it.  
Are you sure?  
I'm sure. But maybe not right now. Wesley took Doyle's head in his hands and kissed him, speaking between the kisses. If you're quite serious... if you want more than the sex... I want us to talk.  
Talk about what? Doyle asked, trying to catch his breath.  
Anything. Tell me about your mother.  
This surprised Doyle so that he started to laugh in the middle of the next kiss. You're funny, you know that?  
Tell me. And it wasn't just small talk to listen to Doyle's voice, Wesley really wanted to know. He wanted to hear about this woman, who had been told all the worst details of her son's life and still didn't hang up when he called her.  
Okay. But not here. They went into the living room without for as much as a moment letting go of each other. Doyle was the first one to sit down, and as Wesley sat down as well he found that every part of his body was accompanied with one of Doyle's. Slender arms rested on his arms, legs were lying by his legs, the breaths of a chest moved behind his back and soft lips touched his ear. Strange, how comforting that was. After all, Doyle was much smaller than Wesley, and in a shaky state of mind.  
What did she say? Wesley asked, leaning back. The breaths made him feel like he was sitting in a living rocking chair.  
Not much, mostly she just listened to me. Cried a little too, I think. It's hard to tell with her.  
Was she angry?  
Why would she be angry? Doyle crossed his arms over Wesley's chest, hands resting on his shoulders, and Wesley put his own over them to hold them there. She had a thing or two to say about me not calling sooner, of course, but I think she was relieved I was alive and not worse off. A brief kiss on the back of his neck. She used to tell me that if I ever did something so bad I didn't want to tell anyone, not even myself, I should still tell her and she would try to help me. And I guess she always has. It's funny, she was never the touchy feely type. Da's feelings were always so dramatic, he'd laugh and shout like in an opera or something, but not mum. She'd just tell me to play outside and mind my clothes, but... He shook his head, unable to explain it. It didn't matter. I knew she loved me.  
So, did you? Wesley half-turned to see Doyle's expression.  
Did I what?  
Play outside and mind your clothes?  
Usually not... Once I filled my pockets with blackberries. Doyle grinned a little and loosened his hands from Wesley in order to gesture with them. Mum made me wash my trousers three times in water filled with vinegar and stuff. I thought all the skin on my hands would peel off. Still, someone had to do it. He laughed. Sometimes we played cards for the household chores. Took me ages to learn how to win.  
Tell me something else, Wesley begged, indulging in these picturesque childhood tales.  
We used to watch the soaps together. Me, mum and aunt Judy. Corry at first, and later Eastenders too. I'd sit in aunt Judy's lap. You wouldn't believe how fat she was, must've weighed two hundred pounds. Still does, I guess.  
He nudged Wesley gently. Your turn.  
Wesley was shaken. He hadn't expected this and moved aside so he sat with his face to Doyle, several inches away from him.  
Doyle, clearly puzzled, reached out a hand, holding Wesley closer again. Your turn to tell me something. What did you do when you were a kid?  
Wesley searched his mind desperately for a suitable memory, something that would match the ones Doyle seemed to have so many of.  
Once I went down to the stream, he started. I had my schoolbooks with me, and I don't know what came over me, but I started ripping pages from my Cicero and folded them into boats. It became a whole armada, floating down the water one by one. I've never felt so free in my life.  
You ruined an expensive book like that? Doyle's voice was filled with the fascinated horror of someone who always had to think about what things cost. What happened when you came home?  
Wesley filled with irrational fear, echoing what he had felt as a boy. That wouldn't make a very good anecdote.  
During the extended silence that followed, Doyle ran his fingers along Wesley's arms. That really tickled awfully. Finally, Wesley turned his head.  
My arse?  
Doyle seemed about to say something, but then just nodded, and they proceeded into the bedroom.  
  
**********  
  
How's it going? Wesley asked as they returned to the Hyperion late the next afternoon.  
Gunn's out finding out, Cordelia said, ignoring her display screen for a few seconds, but nobody's tried to kill us, so we can probably assume they didn't get the license plate number. Angel's resting. *She* offered to be here just in case. She nodded towards the staircase, where a large Mastema demon was sitting with an axe in her lap. The demon gave them a friendly wave. Wesley noticed that her bald head was smooth and her skin a matt grey, not silver. Both were signs of female sex in her species, but she had almost nothing that likened her to any human woman.  
I thought we weren't bringing in the demons at this stage? Wesley asked, quite surprised by the sight.  
She's just guarding the place, Cordelia said. She's promised not to use violence unless it's absolutely necessary.  
Uh-huh, and that's why she's carrying an axe, Doyle said cheerfully.  
Wesley walked up to the demoness and extended his hand. Hello. My name is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.  
She shook it somewhat awkwardly, as if she wasn't used to such a greeting, which was probably the case. I am Three Eltha, she said, with a slight accent. Then she corrected herself: Three in the feminine.  
I beg your pardon? Wesley asked, momentarily confused. Doyle walked up behind him to hear what she had to say.  
The demon seemed puzzled by Doyle, although it wasn't clear if it was because he stood a little too close to Wesley or because she recognized him as a half-breed. She didn't bring either subject up, simply replied to Wesley's question: I was the third child.  
It didn't take long for Wesley to associate this to the Latin he had been forced to study as a child. I wasn't aware it was a custom among Mastema to name their children after numbers, he said with true interest. All the ones known to history seemed to have individual names.  
They were rich and powerful, said Three. Among the poor, the family names are enough. We will not be remembered after our deaths.  
If we manage to do this, you just might be, Doyle said, joining the conversation.  
Thank you, little mutt, she replied, and although both her speech and body language seemed flat to a human, it was obvious that she meant the nickname in a friendly way. But that's not why I fight.  
Her brothers were killed, Cordelia filled in from her position by the counter, and Three nodded.  
Two and Five. Their skin had been taken, but the bodies were left to rot.  
I'm terribly sorry, Wesley said, and Doyle made a sympathetic grimace. Her reply was hardly the expected.  
It was a waste. No honourable hunters would ever have left the meat.  
Cordelia cried. That is so gross!  
Cordelia, do show some respect for other cultures, Wesley said, although he was feeling slightly nauseous himself. Doyle's face was even paler than normal.  
It saddens me that my brothers are dead, Three said. That they were killed by people who didn't use the bodies properly is a disgrace. Seeing no understanding in their faces, she went on: We treat our prey with respect. They deserve not to be wasted, tortured or imprisoned. In that, we are unlike most other species, I know.  
There was a touch of despise in her words, not much, but enough to tell them that even though the Mastema had nothing against humans, there was no doubt in Three's mind which was the superior species. With that attitude, and that physique, it was lucky she was on their side.  
  
**********  
  
It was right after dark when they got the unwelcome guests. Gunn was the only one to be in the lobby at the time, but the others soon rushed out at the sounds of a fight. When Cordelia saw the half dozen vampires in full game face, she grabbed a stake and glared at Doyle, who had joined her on the staircase. You just had to move out and make this place open for visits, didn't you?  
Not sure half-human counts in those matters, Doyle replied, joining the fight as well. One of the vampires avoided his attack easily and then lunged at him. He dodged without even thinking about it. Why are we killing each other anyway? he asked the vampire he was fighting.  
We heard you were the ones to ruin our drinks supply, the vampire growled.  
Point taken.  
Another point was about to be taken too -- in his flesh. Brachen demons tasted awful to vampires, but not eaten and not killed were two different things, and he looked around desperately for help. Angel had quickly disposed of his first enemy and was now fighting two vampires at once. Gunn had trouble enough with one, and although Wesley had managed to get hold of a crossbow, his first shot was aimed at Cordelia's vampire. Fortunately, it was a good shot. After the vampire had exploded into dust, it was Cordelia who grasped Doyle's unfortunate situation and threw the first thing she came across. It happened to be the third volume of the Encyclopaedia Ingaria.  
The vampire fell over and Doyle managed to dive away. He plunged in his stake, but in his haste, he missed the heart, and the vampire simply grunted in surprised pain.  
You're my lunch it said, grabbing Cordelia by the throat in one hand. While she hung there half-choking, kicking wildly, he went after Doyle, whose attempt to get out of range wasn't fast enough. The vampire sniffed him over and shook his head, disappointed, but didn't let go. You I'll do for fun.  
That was when Three entered, sadly without her customary axe. Due to her bulky appearance she moved slowly, but not so slow she couldn't grab the vampire before he knew what hit him. Although he made some attempts to resist, they were more pathetic than anything else. She pounded him into a wall and, having no weapon herself, just kept him there and growled, Kill it!  
Cordelia was still trying to catch her breath, but Doyle managed to get over and stake the vampire. Seeing the cloud of dust under her hands, Three gave a rumbling sound that might be considered a purr.  
While the vampires were still taking in the appearance of a fierce demoness on the scene, Gunn, whose fighting had become increasingly strained, finally managed to kill his. That meant the two fighting Angel were the only ones left. They gave each other a startled look, and then the toughest of them moved on to Three, clearly realizing that she was the most dangerous enemy.  
He was both smarter and more experienced a fighter than his friend, ducking and dodging most of Three's punches, at the same time making sure she was always between him and Wesley's crossbow. Slippery as quicksilver, he constantly managed to be where Three's hands were not, until she finally managed to grab his wrist. It was an awkward hold, but a very firm one, and the vampire panicked. In spite of everything he had learned on how demons taste, he must have decided that necessity knows no law, because he attacked with his teeth, taking Three's rough-skinned neck into his jaws. Angel saw Three's predicament and that the others were in no condition to help her, and his battle became more intense. Seeing the vampire sink its teeth into her neck, he gave one last hard strike with his stake.  
Don't bi... Angel's vampire started, before turning to dust.  
The last vampire was still holding on to Three's neck, but his grip slackened and he stumbled back. A look of confused bliss crept over his face.  
Enjoy it while it lasts, Three muttered and pushed him away, straight into Angel's arms. He was dust within seconds.  
What was that all about? Cordelia asked in utter astonishment.  
Three sat down heavily, apparently quite exhausted by the fight. Vampires are affected very quickly by our skin.  
So he was intoxicated, Wesley said slowly, his researcher mind enjoying these new facts. Everyone was tired, and they sat down closer to each other than necessary, seeking comfort in each other's presence like hurt animals.  
From what they told me, that was what they wanted in the first place, Gunn said. Which leads to the obvious question: how the hell did they know it was our doing?  
We called demons. Cordelia's voice was hoarse and shaky. Seems we called some of the wrong ones.  
What I want to know is if the lab people know it as well, Angel said grimly.  
I don't think they do, Gunn replied. There seemed to be some confusion over there, but I don't think they really knows what's happening, and much less what's causing it. If the word's big among the demons though, it's just a question of time before they learn it.  
I have heard nothing, except from you, Three said. If the gossip hasn't reached us, it's probably not common knowledge yet. The vampires may have found out by coincidence.  
Still, one tattle-tale is all it takes. We'd better keep good check in the future.  
Wesley asked, trying to tie his thoughts together. How many people know you're here?  
My family.  
Do you trust them?  
They're my family. There was a growl in Three's voice, and Wesley took it as a yes.  
I suggest you don't tell anyone else, and keep your ears and eyes open. We can probably stand our own here, but we will need more people outside the office, just in case.  
We got Johnny and the guys, Doyle pointed out. And Gunn's people.  
Great fighters, Gunn said. But human. Wes is right, we could use a demon on our side. What do you say?  
Three stared at them. With a face like that, it was hard to tell her emotions.  
I will have my vengeance and I will aid you in yours. If you think spying is the best method, that's what I will do.  
  



	7. 

**********  
  
And I heard a voice from above that said, 'Smile and be happy, because it could be worse.' And I smiled and was happy, and it became worse.  
--unknown  
  
**********  
  
I've still got an hour and a half before I got to leave for work, Doyle informed Wesley when they had all gotten their cuts and abrasions attended to.  
Do you now? There was no mistaking Doyle's intentions.  
And condoms in my back pocket.  
Ah. And lubricant.  
Doyle grimaced. Afraid not. But there's got to be something in the fridge.  
There's got to be, Wesley agreed. He knew what Doyle was thinking, but he had other plans, and he intended to see them through as well. I believe butter would be sufficient?  
There's butter? Doyle lit up, and his steps became rushed as he approached the kitchen. You could have told me.  
I believe I just did, Wesley replied. His legs were longer than Doyle's, but he still found himself failing to keep up pace with him. When he reached the kitchen, Doyle was already there, taking the box of butter from the refrigerator.  
Now this is what I call helpful, Doyle said to the box. He reached out and put an arm around Wesley almost absentmindedly. Just a bit of melting, and we'll be ready to go.  
Actually, I was thinking... Wesley started, and then interrupted himself as Gunn entered the kitchen.  
What are you doing with the butter? he asked, then seemed to regret the question. Forget it.  
We're just preparing ourselves for future battles, Doyle said with an innocent face, and that really made Gunn look as if he wanted out of there as quickly as possible.  
Huh. I'll be guarding these floors, but if you want to take a piece off my hands, say 212, I'd appreciate it.  
Thank you, Wesley said, surprised by Gunn's change in attitude. 212 was a corner suite and thus a perfect place for privacy. It was still partly furnished, and although there were no sheets in the old bed he was certain it was soft enough to be comfortable. He gave a surprised grin, but Gunn just waved it away with a mutter and left the kitchen. And Doyle, well Doyle obviously didn't know what the hell was going on.  
What's all this about 212? he asked.  
I'll show you. Although the suite wasn't far away, it was too far for Wesley at this point. He made sure to touch Doyle through the whole walk, while he pondered to himself how he was supposed to say what he wanted. During this short time they had spent together, Doyle had established himself as clearly a top, and Wesley didn't mind that, it was just... well, he was still a man.  
What are you thinking about? Doyle put his hands on Wesley's buttocks and moved in closer, a classic approach. The butter fell to the floor, but since the box was still closed it didn't matter. It wouldn't by any chance be...  
  
Doyle frowned. What do you mean, no?  
Well, I... There really was no way of saying this. I think it's my turn. Don't you?  
Doyle withdrew immediately, but only with his mind. His hands were still firmly were they had been placed, only now very tense. Reasonably, yes.  
But you're not going to be reasonable?  
There was only a slight hesitation in Doyle's expression before he nodded. Of course I am.  
Wesley knew that ideally, he would have to sort this out with Doyle before anything happened, but if this, as he suspected, was about the demon, then there was no guarantee that awkward talking would help. Sex might not either, but it was a whole lot more enjoyable. He let his own hands cover Doyle's, and then moved all four up to face level, sliding them over Doyle's neck and his own. Then he released Doyle's hands to take care of his shirt, which was after all an extremely unnecessary item. He didn't have Doyle's wish to explore everything with his mouth, but that pale little body was quite lovely to touch just with your hands. Touching the rough lines on Doyle's wrists he was reminded that he wasn't the only one escaping from loneliness and desperation, and he found himself wondering what death was like, if Doyle had wanted to return to it. Now was not the time to ask, though. He kept undressing Doyle, enjoying the sensation of being in charge this time, although, to be fair, Doyle did return the favour.  
Doyle reminded him, and Wesley picked it up from the floor, only bowing down the briefest of moments before returning to Doyle's body. That chest was really out of this world. Perhaps the general population would find it too skinny and pale, but Wesley found himself holding his breath as he ran his hands through the thin lines of hair and the soft skin beneath it. He put down the box of butter on the bed and dug his fingers into it, smearing a lump of butter onto Doyle's chest.  
I think you need a basic course in biology, Doyle said, sitting down on the bed. Since he and Wesley still hadn't let go of each other, Wes followed as well, trying not to crush Doyle's legs in the process. He was well aware that Doyle wasn't really all that small, and even less fragile, but he couldn't actually feel it. Which was strange, considering how much safer he felt with Doyle around.  
I'm just melting it, he replied, running his buttery fingers down while enjoying the sparkle of lust in those ocean coloured eyes. Body heat and all that. He leaned forward and kissed Doyle. It was gentler than anything they had shared before, but Wesley was in charge this time and it was his decision. He moved over to rub Doyle's back as well, and got a laugh in response.  
What's next, bread crumbs?  
What's next, said Wesley, is that you roll over like this... He aided Doyle in doing this. ...And then I kiss you right here, he concluded, letting his mouth work its way down between the shoulders.  
Doyle moaned in a tone that made it very clear what sort of word could have come next. Wesley grinned a little.  
Enjoy it while it lasts, he said, echoing Three's words in the fight before.  
There was a muffled snort from below him. I never expected her to have a sense of humour.  
Showing a bit of speciesism, are we? Wesley teased, continuing his activity. At another time or place, he could have pointed out that anyone trying to get along with a completely foreign species a lot smaller than themselves would come off as rather harsh, but right now he was too busy preparing Doyle for the penetration.  
  
**********  
  
The change in Doyle's body from aroused to enduring was so slow Wesley didn't even notice it until it was too late. He could see the tension building up but didn't know why or what to do about it, not with his cock up a tight ass and demanding more and more of his attention. It took some of the joy away, and when he was finished he lay back, hurt by the fact that Doyle hadn't climaxed, hadn't turned.  
What's wrong? he asked Doyle, who seemed more relaxed now that it was over.  
Nothing. Why?  
The carefree tone didn't fool Wesley. For a moment he had been worried that Doyle had cracked again, but he usually didn't try to hide those times. Then again, he usually couldn't.  
You didn't seem to enjoy it much. He grimaced within at the girl-like whining he was displaying. Did I do something wrong?  
Course not. You were fine. Doyle rolled over on his back and stroke Wesley's cheek.  
But you didn't turn. The penny finally dropped. You didn't want to turn. He sat up straight and grabbed his pants that were lying at the foot of the bed. You bastard!  
Doyle sat up as well, astonished at Wesley's reaction. What did I do?  
You and your stupid vanity... Wesley almost choked on his words.  
Vanity? Hey wait a minute! Don't try to tell me you'd feel too hot with a green spiky creature in your bed.  
I would... Wesley managed speak calmly. I would be happy that I could please my partner.  
Well, I'm sorry, but this isn't a charity institution, Doyle snapped. He tried to lie down, but Wesley yanked him up to his feet.  
Of all stupid, ignorant, bigoted half-breeds, he muttered.  
Doyle's eyes widened. What did you call me?  
Wesley didn't listen, only dragged Doyle into the bathroom. There was no light bulb, so he left the door open, but the images in the old mirror were clear enough.  
When Doyle only looked aggravated, Wesley repeated, Turn for me.  
Doyle opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind and shook on the demon face. Wesley moved up behind him and turned him towards the mirror.  
Brachen demon, fully grown but quite young, Wesley said. His voice and eyes were impassionate, but the hands moving over Doyle's features were anything but. Definitely no more than fifty.  
Doyle said, but he was actually smiling, in spite of his discomfort.  
The expected life span of a Brachen is...  
Please don't tell me, Doyle quickly said, and Wesley shrugged.  
Alright then. The skin is slightly too pale, but the eyes are of a good, healthy colour, as are the spikes. Wesley let his fingertips investigate the spikes further. He had never actually touched Brachen spikes before and found that they weren't so sharp he couldn't touch their tips without harming his skin, as long as he didn't press. Firm, yet of a soft texture. Perfect, I would say.  
You're making fun of me, Doyle said and withdrew a little.  
Wesley's voice was serious. You're not human. It doesn't matter how much you hold back during sex, you still won't be. But for what you are, you're perfectly normal. And I happen to find you handsome.  
He leaned forward and kissed Doyle's neck carefully between the spikes. It felt more or less the same in demon form, which surprised him. The only difference were those spikes, and he wondered to himself how they would taste in his mouth. Doyle slowly moved around to kiss him back, without turning back. That was definitely a first. Wesley carefully moved his lips over Doyle's face, slipping one of the spikes into his mouth and sucking it. There was a roughness to the spikes that was only noticeable to the tongue, tiny barbs that gave resistance to movement and new sensations to the kiss. Doyle drew a shaky breath, and Wesley's mouth curved in triumph. It was too much to ask that Doyle would be fine about this, but at the very least he was enjoying it. You know, I never expected that my Watcher training would come to this.  
Really? I thought orgies were a naturalized part of an English education, Doyle deadpanned, and Wesley burst into laughter. In his surprise, he forgot to be careful, and a spike grazed his lip. At his yelp, Doyle immediately became serious again.  
Christ, I'm sorry.  
My own fault, really. Wesley licked the blood away from his lip and returned his attention to Doyle's face.  
I really should take a shower, Doyle said, finally turning back. Wesley felt slightly disappointed. He was starting to enjoy the demon side.  
We probably both should, he replied, trying the faucet to the old shower a little to see what would happen. It made a noise like the sky falling down, but there was water. Shall we?  
Wes, you're not a nice guy, Doyle said, stepping into the shower.  
Thank you. Wesley took off his pants again and went after him.  
Wasn't a compliment.  
I know. They still had more than an hour. Sex again would be asking too much from both of them, but a nice shower was an entirely different matter. They stood there in the half-darkness of an unlit bathroom, rubbing the butter off their bodies, and even the short moment when Doyle lost track of time and space couldn't change the feeling Wesley had that it wouldn't ever get any better than this.  
  
**********  
  
The lab's empty, Gunn said, sitting down in Cordelia's office, where they were gathered for the time being. Any idea where everything went?  
After the few weeks that had gone by, the effects of their actions were beginning to show, and this was what they had started to look into. The A.I. people were all there, as was Three, and Johnny was expected to come soon.  
Four people that seem to have been involved with this were caught by the police, Cordelia said. Various reasons. What I don't get is why now, when they haven't before?  
Wild guess, because they could pay before? Doyle said, and nobody could argue with the cynical assumption.  
Cordelia shrugged. Everyone else seems to have disappeared. A few gave up their apartments first, but the rest... who knows?  
Two corpses were found in an alley, Angel said, and although his voice was quiet there was a hint of danger in it. They had been skinned after the kill.  
Everyone turned to look at Three, who was sitting silently with her face turned down and her hands in her lap. Considering her lack of human body language it was probably unintentional, but she looked remarkably pious.  
I thought your people never left a corpse? Wesley said slowly.  
She didn't lift her head as she replied, We made an exception.  
It was clear that to her, there was nothing more to be said. And what were they to do, chide her for it? She was not an employee, and besides, it was utterly unlikely that she had been the one holding the knife.  
Wesley said, finally breaking the silence. Any idea what happened to the prisoners?  
Johnny was supposed to find out, Doyle said. He said he was running a little late.  
There have been words of easy prey, Three said, but nobody seems to know for certain.  
Easy prey? Gunn asked.  
Confused. Not fighting.  
Doped up. Mental, Doyle added, trying to sound casual.  
Three agreed.  
There was a banging on the front door and Cordelia left to open it, while the others yet again fell silent. Soon she returned with Johnny Trash, a younger bum, and a small purplish demon who looked more than nervous.  
We were just waiting for you, Angel said.  
Yeah I know, Johnny replied. I was about to leave when I heard from Roe about Ducky's discovery. Since it's out first real progress I thought it was worth the delay.  
I found him on my corner, the young man explained, which didn't seem so smart in broad daylight. Scares people off, for one thing.  
His name is Javi, Johnny filled in, and it appears he's Chicano.  
Wesley frowned. That's a type of demon I don't believe I've heard of.  
Doyle was visibly tense, but still had to laugh at that comment. Mexican, Wes.  
Wesley grimaced in embarrassment. He had been around long enough to be aware of that word, just not in connection to demons. ¿Qué te falta? he asked the demon.  
The reply was so long and fast and with such a peculiar accent that Wesley shook his head in confusion and turned to Angel. All I caught was something about spiders under his skin.  
That's a classic, Johnny muttered, shaking his head.  
So we know he's on dope, Gunn said. Doesn't mean they're the ones who did it.  
From what I understand, he's from Mexico City, Johnny said. LA isn't exactly his territory.  
And my corner certainly isn't, Ducky added.  
Wesley asked another question, this time also telling Javi to take it slower. He listened to the reply and translated as good as he could. He was near the border, and a car hit him. Humans took him away and put him in a room... sticking him with needles to make strange things come. Sometimes good things, sometimes very bad.  
Doyle stood up and left the room, clearly shook up. Wesley wanted to follow, but Javi was still talking, and this was important. But one day the humans stopped coming. He became very hungry and felt the spiders crawling. After a while he could hear the smell of someone who had died, and he was hungry enough to break the restraints and eat the corpse. Wesley swallowed. Then he found his way out.  
Was there anyone still alive? Gunn asked in a low voice.  
¿Había algún... uhm... todavía vivo?  
Javi nodded slowly. Créo que sí.  
He thinks so. Wesley took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. If you'll excuse me...  
Gunn turned to Ducky. Exactly where is that corner of yours?  
Wesley left the room without hearing the answer, looking for Doyle. He found him in the lobby, with a bottle of vodka calming down his shaking hands. There was no use in saying things like 'you shouldn't be drinking'. What else could he possibly do?  
Wesley sat down next to him and silently pulled him into an embrace.  
Never expected to find another, Doyle mumbled into his shoulder.  
I know. I'm sorry. And that was so wrong, so not enough, but it was all he could say.  
Doyle moved around enough to take a deep gulp, and it hurt Wesley too see that, enough to let out a pleading even though he didn't want to.  
Just shut up! All of you! Doyle loosened himself from Wesley's arms and put his hands up to his face, still holding on to the bottle so his fingers whitened.  
There's just me here.  
Doyle shook his head violently.  
Yes, there's just me. Wesley stroke away a long dark strand of hair from Doyle's face. Doyle moaned and rocked his body, half there, half not. The rest isn't real. Do you understand?  
It's real.  
Wesley was surprised that Doyle argued; he had thought the half-demon too far away for contact.  
It's always there... doesn't matter if I'm sleeping or working or what I do, it's still there. Doyle kept shaking his head as if it physically hurt. Even when there's no hallucination, there's still the memory.  
Not knowing what to say, Wesley just held unto Doyle with all the strength he had. Maybe you should go home for a while.  
We have to find the prisoners, don't we? Doyle protested.  
Yes But I don't think you should come.  
The look Doyle gave him could have cut through stone. I don't need your protection.  
That pride ran so deep, and it was so completely unnecessary, because Wesley wanted Doyle to need his protection, just like he needed the protection Doyle could give him. But then, Wesley had other things to hold on to and maybe didn't need his pride as much as Doyle did. That could wait, but finding the prisoners couldn't, and if Wesley knew one thing, it was that Doyle was simply not going. You shouldn't return. I'd say the same for Angel or Gunn or Cordelia... or myself. There are times when it's good to get back up in the saddle, and there are times when it isn't. I suspect it's going to be rough enough for the rest of us. You shouldn't put yourself through that.  
Arrogant shithead, Doyle muttered, standing up. All right, I'm heading home. If I'm asleep when you come around I want you to wake me so I can bonk you into next Sunday.  
Wesley smiled and reached out his hand to touch Doyle's face. Moving his hand over the mouth he found his fingers being caressed by the soft tip of a tongue that just as quickly disappeared as Doyle stood back and put on his jacket. And that would help, would it?  
You have no idea.  
  
**********  
  
They waited until after dark before going to Ducky's corner, both for Angel's sake and to make the demons less noticeable. Javi had to come along to show the way, and Three in case fighting would be needed.  
Ducky said, jumping out of the Angelmobile, This is it. He looked around, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully when he saw a red Mercedes driving slowly on the other side of the road.  
What is it? Cordelia asked, clearly worried it might be one of the enemies still lingering.  
Nothing to worry about. Ducky turned to Johnny as the only person he knew. You don't need me any more, do you?  
Johnny looked at Angel, who shook his head, although he really didn't want that young man to go to the Mercedes at all.  
No, it's okay, kid, you run along. Give my best to Roe!  
I will!  
Ducky waved his goodbyes and walked up to the car, which disappeared from sight as soon as the young hustler had jumped in.  
Are you sure that was a good idea? Angel asked, and Johnny shrugged.  
He's not part of my gang. And even if he were, I never interfere with things like that. He turned to Javi and patted the unhappy demon on its shoulder. Do you think you can find the way?  
Wesley translated into Spanish and Javi nodded, swallowing hard. He started walking down the road and pointed in the direction he wanted them to go, all the time speaking in both Spanish and his native tongue. Judging from his appearance he was still in abstinence, and it was obviously cruel to make him come along. Problem was, they didn't have any choice.  
Finally he stopped short and pointed towards a broken cellar window across the street.   
That's good, Johnny said soothingly. Now you stay here with me, while they go inside, okay?  
Obviously the demon didn't understand much of that, but he sat down next to Johnny in the shadowy place between two houses. The rest proceeded towards the building. From the broken window came a smell so strong Angel was certain the humans could feel it too. Abstract scents of fear and despair mixed with sickness and the overwhelming death. He looked down at the window, where insects had already started to gather.   
She looked down as well. You have *got* to be kidding.  
You're the only one small enough, Wesley agreed in a low voice. Try to find some way to let the rest of us in. Another window or any sort of entrance.  
I'm not calling that an entrance, she said, already lowering herself down. She tried carefully to avoid the shards of glass. You know, there are flies down here.  
There are dead people down there, Angel said gloomily, and she glared at him.  
Well thank you so much for those encouraging words.  
Soon, she had disappeared from view, and they waited anxiously for any sign from her. After an eternity of strained silence, there was a scream from the inside that made them all jump. They quickly kneeled down in front of the window. Cordy? Are you okay? Gunn hollered.  
There was no reply, and he started to take off his jacket. I'll try going down.  
You won't fit, Angel said automatically.  
Well, I'll fit better than you. Gunn stuck his feet into the hole, and Wesley wondered if they would be able to pull him out if he got stuck halfways Winnie-the-Pooh style. Then there were more screams, until finally the door further down the street starting making a great racket, and Cordelia stumbled out. Gunn quickly hauled up his feet again and all the guys rushed over to her.  
Are you okay? This time it was Wesley who asked the question.  
Yeah... They're not all dead... But I don't know how they live. She was actually crying. Cordelia Chase, who had seen it all.  
Gunn frowned in concern and turned to Angel, who was standing in the doorway with a closed expression. What is it?  
Angel shook his head, unable to explain the mix of scents, and stepped inside. The others followed close behind. There was nothing in the hall, and so they proceeded downstairs to the rooms Cordelia had crossed.  
Simple beds filled the room, with demons tied down to most of them. Some of the demons were so thin you could see every bone in their body. They must have gone without food or water ever since the shutdown of the lab. Wesley moved past the first body, which was clearly dead, and stopped by the second, whose glazed eyes were still moving slightly, trying to focus on the people moving around.  
it whispered, and although it was a hideous thing, Wesley took its hand, touched by the plea. The demon blinked and tried to speak again. Nani... ye cer cemda...  
Wesley understood enough of the language to know that the demon who called him wanted food, but he had no words to reply with, and he knew the demon wouldn't survive a meal. Or survive at all, for that matter.  
This one will live, Three declared, talking to a demon that was smaller than her, but still bigger than the humans. She released him from his restraints and asked him a question in her own language. As a reply, he sank down to the floor. She spoke again, annoyed, and pulled him back up, then turned to the others. I will keep him as my brother.  
They stared at her. Angel, who had been checking out a still warm body and come to the conclusion that yes, he was dead, asked, Are you sure?  
I am sure. His kind are hunters, like mine. I must still find another, and a daughter for my cousin. If there are that many that will live.  
Wesley looked down at the demon he was holding, that still drew shaky breaths, but not for much longer. Most of the demons still alive seemed to be dying, which only made sense, since the strongest had escaped while they still could. Maybe a few of them could be saved by healing spells, but even in that case, where would they go? Since the demon no longer seemed aware that anyone was present, Wesley slowly released his hand and moved on through the different rooms. In the one with the broken window, he ran into Gunn, who was going in the other direction, visibly shook up.  
I found the demon Javi had been nibbling from. Not a pretty sight.  
Wesley stopped short, no longer apt to go into the room. Was that what made Cordelia scream?  
Well, if it wasn't, I'm not sure I want to know what was.  
They walked back together, through the rooms in the basement and up the stairs. Neither said anything, because there was nothing that could be said in the face of all this. And it could as well have been Doyle. For the first time, Wesley found himself grateful that Doyle had suffered that cardiac arrest. It may have messed up his mind, but it was quite likely it had also saved his life.  
I'm kind of glad your boy isn't seeing all this, Gunn finally said. Seeing Wesley's expression, he lightly punched him on the arm. It was the first time they'd touched since their quarrel.  
  
**********  
  
It was late enough to be morning when Wesley finally made his way home, but Doyle was still awake, watching TV in the living room. There was no way he was sober, but when he looked up at Wesley, his eyes were still clear enough to ask questions. Since he wasn't ready to answer any, Wesley just kicked off his shoes and sat down next to Doyle on the sofa, wrapping himself around the other man. Doyle leaned back, obviously not eager to talk either, and turned his attention back to the TV. Wesley frowned.  
I didn't know they showed 'Relic Hunter' at this time of night.  
They don't. It's recorded.  
You record 'Relic Hunter'? Wesley put that information among all other things he didn't know about Doyle. What on earth for? It's historically inaccurate, has pathetic plots... He noticed Doyle's weak but clearly amused smile. It's the woman, isn't it?  
Who, her? Doyle gestured towards the TV and for the first time showed any sign of inebriation. Please. Talk about main character syndrome. The world revolves around her, so she doesn't have to be any fun. No, but that assistant, you know, he's something. Quite sharp, and charmingly fumbling... and that fantastic accent...  
Wesley kissed him softly on the neck, and he silenced, sighing deeply.  
That bad, was it?  
Wesley wouldn't answer that, only held Doyle tighter, and traced the lines on his wrists like so many times before. For the first time he wondered if Doyle hadn't had the right idea after all. Is there a heaven? he asked, knowing he had to find an answer to that.  
Doyle didn't seem the least bit surprised by the question, which was another sign he had been drinking a bit too much after all. Yes. No. Yes. He thought about it. Do you mind if I don't tell you about it? It's a memory I want to keep, and I can't do that with words all over it.  
I understand, Wesley said, but he felt a bit disappointed.  
It's nothing like what the priests tell you, that's for sure. But you don't have to be afraid of it, Wes.  
Wesley thought about that, still caressing the scars. Do you wish you hadn't come back?  
Not when you're holding me. Doyle turned around and kissed him hard, a kiss full of whiskey and tears. Wanting to forget what he had seen, Wesley kissed back, but he couldn't get past the images of starving, sick demons. He forced himself to think of other things, and recalled what Doyle had said about priests.  
Are you catholic?  
Technically, anyway. Doyle looked up, clearly not anticipating the subject.  
Irish, Catholic, male, half-demon. And the wrong class, too. According to his upbringing that made Doyle unworthy on all accounts. Yet he was strong enough to go through every day with painful memories that sometimes took over his world, and to lead a normal life most of that time.  
Not what daddy would have wanted?  
Bugger him.  
I'd rather bugger you. Doyle sighed. But I don't think I have the energy.  
Me neither. Still entangled with Doyle, Wesley lay down. There really wasn't much room, and he quite counted on being kicked if Doyle managed to fall asleep, but going into the bedroom would mean letting go, and that was an impossibility. He released one hand for as short a period of time as possible to turn off that annoying TV show, that was all. The diminutive size of the sofa made him feel like he had a Doyle-blanket, but that was remarkably comfortable.  
What's going to happen to them? The question was low and hesitant, and Wesley automatically held on a bit closer.  
Three's people are taking a few in. Johnny's helping out too.  
Johnny's a saint. A short silence, then, Some are dead, aren't they?  
The number of corpses had gotten higher while they were still working to set free the ones that lived. There had been no way of bringing them back to wherever they belonged, and so they had been transported out of public sight and piled up to a funeral pyre. To some of them, that might very well have been traditional. Wesley hadn't tended to the fire, but as he was leaving, he felt the smell of burning flesh and knew he'd never look at bonfires the same way again.  
He held Doyle in silence, thanking whoever reigned in that Heaven which did and did not exist for giving him this man. He didn't know why Doyle lived when so many had died, but he thanked them for it over and over again.  
  



	8. 

**********  
  
Alcohol makes me sober. After a few gulps of brandy I stop thinking about you.  
--Marguerite Yourcenar  
  
**********  
  
The Host was browsing through the bar, keeping check of everything. On the stage a young woman was stammering through ABBA with a loud voice. You hear her voice everywhere, taking a chair, she's a leading lady... It didn't take clairvoyance to know that was more wishful thinking than anything else.  
It was one of the regulars, coming up with a drink in his hand and a frown on his face. There's a half-breed freaking out in your store room. Thought you might want to know.  
Oh. Okay, I've got it covered. Don't you worry about it. The Host started walking towards the store room, but without any hurry, since he already knew what he was going to find.  
Doyle was sitting on the floor with his knees under his chin, violently rocking. His lips were moving, but his voice was too low to hear. The Host sat down next to him, holding his shoulders.  
Easy now, sweetheart, take a breath. In... out... can you do that? In... out...  
It took a while before Doyle obeyed and stopped the mutterings.  
Feeling better now?  
It was barely more than a whisper: I'm going mad.  
On the contrary. You're going better. I saw your future once.  
Doyle turned away. Did you see why I didn't die with the others?  
Their fates aren't in your future. What happened to them isn't your responsibility. You did all you could, and now some people get to live.  
Suddenly everyone's a philosopher. Doyle stood up, leaning against the wall to help the dizziness.  
The Host didn't let this bother him. Take tonight off. Be with your man for a while.  
Simply nodding, Doyle pushed through the crowd to get to the front door. Rudeness had nothing to do with it. Stumbling forwards, he bumped into a young blonde, who dropped her purse to the floor. The belongings scattered all over, and she gave an irritated .  
Still shaking, he bent down anyway to help her pick things up, putting make-up and money back where it belonged. She looked at him with suspicion mixed with concern.  
Hey, you don't look so good. You'd better go out before you heave.  
And he was out on the street, walking the way home with steps that hurried more and more. There was no fear, but there was longing, and he fumbled with the lock to the apartment, wanting to get in as quickly as possible to rub away this feeling.  
Wesley wasn't there. Doyle turned on the light and stood there in the hallway for a minute, just looking around. Then he proceeded into the living room and brought a bottle of whiskey from the bookshelf. Sitting down on the sofa, he took from his pocket the one thing that he hadn't returned to the blonde's purse.  
  
**********  
  
A few hours after midnight, Wesley unlocked the door to his apartment and was stunned to find the lights on. He clearly remembered that Doyle had said he'd be working all night, and even if Doyle's hours were irregular, they weren't quite irregular enough to make four hours qualify as all night.  
He took off his jacket and went inside, calling out Doyle's name without getting any response. Halfway into the living room he stopped, and for a second he smiled in relief. Doyle was lying on the sofa, sleeping heavily. Poor man, he must have been exhausted. On the coffee table lay a bottle of whiskey, which was hardly unexpected.  
Wesley sat down in a chair, just watching him. Then his relief slowly disappeared as he remembered that this was not how Doyle slept. Even drunk he would toss and turn in bed, muttering incomprehensible phrases most of the time. Now he was just lying there motionless.  
Wesley left his chair and rushed forward, afraid of what he might find. But Doyle was breathing, if slowly, and Wesley shook him to get some response. Nothing happened. Wesley started to panic, holding Doyle's unconscious body next to him while he pondered his options. Ambulance. He had to call an ambulance.  
Somehow the woman on the phone managed to extract name and location from his meaningless babble, and before long he was surrounded by nice people in uniforms telling him to take it easy.  
Has anything like this ever happened before?  
He shook his head. He should be able to stay calm. Life and death situations were everyday stuff for him, after all. But it was impossible. I just came home and there he was. I knew he was drunk, but...  
I found this, another of the paramedics said, handing the first one a small box. Prescribed to a Helen Rossi.  
Is he in the habit of taking Valium? The man's eyes were kind.  
Wesley's thoughts raced away to Doyle's initial story. Yes, but... But what? Not recently? As far as he knew, Doyle hadn't taken anything but alcohol during the time they had spent together, but then again, he'd learned an ask not policy quick enough.  
Harry, get over here! The paramedics started throwing numbers at each other that meant nothing to Wesley, but they were obviously unexpected.  
What? That's not humanly possible!  
A warning bell rang in Wesley's head, but he didn't have time to think about it. They were carrying out Doyle, and he had to be there, to see what was happening. He stayed by the stretcher down all the stairs, and out onto the street, where people where gathered around the ambulance. During the ride, his thoughts were swirling around in his head, and it wasn't until they reached the hospital and Doyle was taken out of sight that he suddenly found himself being completely calm.  
He had to call Angel. The paramedics had suspected something, and in retrospect it had probably not been a good idea to have Doyle taken to the hospital, where a non-human patient was likely to be Mr. Science project of the year. But what else was he supposed to do? Doyle could have died. Could still die. Could have wanted to die.  
He pushed that thought away and dialled the number of the Hyperion. It took several signals before Angel answered, which was rare at this time of night.  
It's Wesley. It seems Doyle has taken a large number of Valium pills and swallowed them down with alcohol. I called the hospital, but I'm beginning to think it wasn't a good idea. Angel's voice in the other end became dead sharp and full of questions. Saint Peter's. Will you please come here as soon as possible... and if you would call the others, I would be most grateful.  
He sat back down, hoping for some time to think, but he didn't get it. A young man in a white coat -- nurse? intern? -- came up to him, asking questions.  
I'm Dr. Jackson. We've pumped his stomach, and it actually looks like he's going to live. It appears his metabolism is... quite unique, really. The drugs are disappearing at an incredible rate.  
This was getting too close to be comfortable, but that didn't matter compared to the glorious words going to live, so Wesley simply nodded and waited for more.  
There are some things we need to know. What's his name?  
It helped to think about trivial things like that. The patient but clearly waiting look on Dr. Jackson's face reminded him that they needed a first name as well. What on earth was it? Uhm... Francis, I think. Allen Francis Doyle.  
Spelled A-l-a-n?  
Wesley shook his head. I have no idea. I'm sorry.  
That's quite all right. Date of birth?  
Again, Wesley shook his head. Early seventies, that's all I can say.  
The doctor sighed and looked down his sheet of paper.   
His mother lives in Dublin. I don't have her phone number. He thought about that. I think Angel does, though.  
  
A friend... from work. I mean, I work with him. Doyle doesn't.  
He was found in his home, correct?  
Yes... Our home. Yes.  
Dr. Jackson said again, this time in an almost cheerful note. He gave Wesley a sympathetic smile. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll be fine.  
The words were reassuring, but the eagerness with which he hurried off wasn't. Say that Doyle did live, what would happen then? Whatever it was, it probably wouldn't include a quiet release from the hospital, no questions asked.  
  
**********  
  
Hey, English! Gunn was the first to arrive, and dropped down in the next chair. He was clearly worried. What's this I hear about Doyle... you know?  
He mixed Valium and whiskey, Wesley said, relieved to have other people there as well. Cordelia and Angel arrived right after Gunn. While Angel remained standing, looking as if he didn't know whether to punch something or to cry, Cordelia sat down and threw her arms around Wesley. During all this, Gunn still tried to talk to him.  
But he's been on Valium, right? I mean, it could be an accident.  
Wesley shook his head. He had hoped the same thing, but there was no doubt what the hospital people thought, and so he had to agree with them. The only reason he's still alive is because his metabolism is 'unique' somehow. Slightly lower, he added, Demon side, I assume.  
But he's going to be okay? Cordelia asked urgently, now sitting in the other adjoining seat with Wesley's hand firmly between both of hers.  
They think so, yes.  
Oh, thank God. Or the PTB, or whatever.  
Who gave it to him? Angel finally spoke, and his voice was fierce.  
The box said Helen Rossi, Wesley replied calmly. And no, I don't know who that is. I don't even know why he was home.  
Well, that shouldn't be too hard to find out, Gunn said, standing up. I'll go call Lorne. You tell me if there's any news, okay?  
A quarter of an hour later he returned, sitting down again.  
Angel, who'd been pacing around the room, now stopped. Wes and Cordy had looked up.  
He had an attack and Lorne sent him home, Gunn replied. I also got hold of Helen Rossi, she's a regular. Seems some guy bumped into her purse at the club yesterday. His description fits Doyle. And yeah, she's missing some pills.  
Wesley sighed and shook his head, rubbing his forehead.  
How do you know she's telling the truth? Angel asked.  
Gunn raised his eyebrows, but it was Wesley who answered. Doyle is a thief. After everything that has happened, he probably couldn't resist.  
But he couldn't help feeling angry with Doyle for not letting him know. Of everything he had worried about where Doyle was concerned, another suicide attempt wasn't among them. Which just meant he had utterly missed the signs, if there had been any. And what kind of idiot would try to kill himself without giving any hints first? Of course, he had every reason to be depressed. And he had been dead, and obviously enjoyed it. There was no reason at all why Wesley should find this astonishing.  
What about her, where did she get it? Angel still wouldn't give up the need of someone to blame.  
Cordelia suggested. Newsflash, not illegal. My mother takes them. She looked to Gunn for confirmation and he nodded.  
So what you're saying is, this is Doyle's own fault?  
No, of course that's not what we're saying, it's just...  
Wesley raised his head from his hands. Is this leading to anything? I mean, at all? He was speaking politely, but that only seemed to shake them up the more. Whatever the reason, he's in there. By choice, as it seems. Now, I don't see how we can possibly... *revenge*... that.  
Nobody answered him, and so they sat around silently until once again a doctor showed up and gave them the usual you-can-go-in-now-but-one-at-a-time routine. After all their time fighting it was familiar territory. Without even looking around, Wesley stood up and followed the doctor to Doyle's room.  
And, thank God, he was awake. Looking like hell, of course, but he even managed to crack a smile. Wesley smiled back, although he was half anxious and half furious, and sat down next to him. You stupid bastard.  
Doyle grimaced. Not smart, I know. He held out a hand, and Wesley took it, almost ready to punch him in the face.  
Not smart? You tried to kill yourself! You have my cell phone number, couldn't you just have called me... Wesley's voice trailed away when he saw Doyle's surprised expression.   
Kill myself?  
You didn't try to kill yourself? It was an *accident*? Wesley couldn't believe it when Doyle nodded. Well, in that case, 'not smart' is the least you can say. You would have been dead by now if it wasn't for your demon metabolism.  
The smile on Doyle's face was most definitely wicked now. Probably twenty times over.  
Wesley stared at him, and recalled how many times he had marveled at Doyle's ability to pour down alcohol. Of course that would go for Valium too, and of course Doyle would know about it. Oh. I thought...  
If I was to kill myself, Doyle said, obviously with some effort, although he was still smiling, I wouldn't take pills... like some girl.  
Well, you mixed it out with whiskey, Wesley pointed out, feeling ridiculously weak with relief. He was glad he was sitting down. And you've died before...  
Doyle closed his eyes, and Wesley wondered if he shouldn't have said something. Was it... as good?  
A small nod from the dark head on the pillow.  
Do you wish... He couldn't get any further, and Doyle opened his eyes again. They looked even clearer in his weary face.  
I chose you to be mine.  
Wesley recalled a conversation from a long time ago. Your dad?  
Doyle shook his head impatiently and squeezed Wesley's hand. No, stupid.  
You mean me? Wesley smiled as Doyle rolled his eyes to indicate .  
For some reason, he felt pathetically happy, leaning down to stroke Doyle's hair away from his face. And you.  
  
**********  
  
May I have a word?  
A doctor stopped Wesley in the hall, and he braced himself, fearing what would come. Of course.  
I understand you're Mr. Doyle's closest relation in America?  
Closest relation. Well, that was one way of putting it.   
We have been running some tests...  
His entire body tensed at those very words. Here it came.  
Some of the results are unexpected. The EEG shows a synaptic disorder, but that's... well, maybe not normal, but not entirely uncommon either. The doctor searched Wesley's face. Have you noticed any signs of mental problems?  
Well, yes, Wesley said, knowing the key to good lying was to remain as close to the truth as possible. Sometimes he gets hallucinations. But we're aware of the problem, and he's getting help. This was... a setback. That's all.  
He's getting help? the doctor asked. Really. That's good. He stood silent for a minute, stroking his chin. Since the only Allen Francis Doyle who fits his description hasn't been in touch with any authority since 1996, when he was arrested for drunken disorderly. I'm just worried, that's all.  
Damn. Obviously, they would do their homework extra carefully if Doyle's demon side really did affect even his human body. But as long as he didn't turn, maybe there was a way out of this. Well, I've only known him for a few months, I'm afraid I couldn't tell...  
His metabolism works at an exceptional rate, as I believe you've already been told. Also, he has an unusual blood type, or more accurately, unheard of. He looked at Wesley with open curiosity. We have no idea what this means. Speculation is running high. One of the nurses, he grinned in amusement, even claims she saw spines come out of his face. What we need to do is take some more tests, find out the truth behind these ridiculous rumours. Perhaps it can be of help to others.  
Wesley broke out in a cold sweat. I have no idea what you're talking about. And besides, isn't Doyle the one you should talk to? You'll need his permission to run the tests, after all.  
Yes. So far, he hasn't been very cooperative. We hoped you would talk to him.  
Wesley nodded. Of course he would talk to Doyle. But it was unlikely to have the results the doctors intended.  
Fortunately, once he had been taken to Doyle's room, they were left alone. Thank God for hospital policy.  
Wesley sat down next to the bed, and Doyle shook his head slowly. He was sitting up in his bed, trying to get the IV out of his arm, but stopped by restraints. Wesley grasped his hand, hard. Doyle, can you hear me?  
Doyle struggled to get free, but nodded.  
Can you hear me? Wesley repeated, knowing better than to trust a nod.  
Yeah. Get this thing off me.  
Hold still. Wesley took out the IV, trying not to hurt Doyle in the process. They're suspecting something.  
I know. Doyle leaned back, relaxing considerably now that the IV was out. I have to get out of here.  
Yes, but 'how' would be a good question, Wesley replied, keeping his voice low. As much as I would love to dress up in a white coat and roll you out in a wheelchair, I think somebody might be a bit suspicious.  
Doyle turned his head towards the window, which had a net of strong wire, but no proper bars. I could jump out.  
You're on the third floor, and there's wire on the window.  
I can do it in demon form.  
Wesley turned to look at the window as well. He had never seen any examples of Doyle's demon strength, but he was well aware that it existed, just like he was well aware Doyle hated it. So if he was desperate enough to use it, who was Wesley to say no? Alright, if you think that's a good idea. He took away the restraints. Angel and Gunn have both left, but Cordelia is downstairs. What should I tell her?  
To get the car ready and wait for me downstairs, Doyle suggested, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He swayed a little, but managed to steady himself. I'll be coming down in ten minutes or so. Pray nobody finds me too early.  
Wesley found the swaying a bit unnerving. Are you sure you're up to this?  
Doyle gave him a don't-baby-me-or-I'll-beat-you-senseless sort of look and Wesley held his hands up in excuse, leaving the room.  
  
**********  
  
Cordelia was down in the waiting room, reading a Cosmo magazine with an interest that couldn't even be described as half-hearted. Her foot bobbed impatiently up and down, and the moment she saw Wesley entering she flew out of the low armchair with a speed that shouldn't be possible from such an impractical position. Any news?  
Wesley admitted. Can we step outside?  
They walked past the double doors and stopped on the lawn, where Cordelia listened carefully to what Wesley had to say and slapped him when he had finished. Are you out of your *mind*? Are both of you?  
What's the alternative? Leaving him here?  
She ignored that question. Like they won't know something's wrong if Doyle jumps out of a barred window on the third floor? They have your address, you know, all they have to do is show up at your doorstep.  
Well, it's not as if we had a choice.  
The debate was interrupted as the window broke and the wire net came flying through the air, setting off the alarms. Seconds later, Doyle landed on the lawn, green-faced and spiny as expected, and started running. Wesley grabbed Cordelia's arm and pulled her with him. I suggest we save the objections until later.  
Once in the car, Doyle leaned back in his seat and turned human again. He looked absolutely beat, and Wesley, sitting down next to him, suspected he had taken out more strength than he really had to spare on that short run. There was no time to think about that now. Cordy jumped in the front and took them away, as calmly as possible without actually going slow. Any ideas on an address they don't have? she asked sarcastically.  
Go back to the Hyperion, Doyle replied. His eyes were closed, but he spoke clearly, and she shrugged, turning the car. Wesley's reaction was more complex. The Hyperion was a safe place, that was true, but it was also a place Doyle had been very eager to leave. And he had to admit that the thought of moving in there didn't much strike his fancy either. He would miss the privacy, the knowledge that it was just the two of them in a silent apartment --- and of course, the ability to have sex without any form of interruptions. Then again, as he had told Cordelia, it wasn't as if they had any choice.  
  
**********  



	9. 

**********  
  
It's not very hard to be brave if you're not afraid.  
--Tove Jansson  
  
**********  
  
Angel browsed through the mail, wearing an expression that would have crowned him the King of Gloom, had anyone been there to see it. But it was eleven AM on a beautiful day, and as Cordy had put it before striding out the front door, there were limits to how much work you could do before you became pathetic. And they had deserved some time off after all. It had been a slow week, and the aftereffects from the drug trade had started to wear off. Not that it would last. Sooner or later someone would go hey, have you tasted goblin eyeballs in cocaine? and experiments would start again. But at least this time there would be somewhere to turn when things went bad. People were actually cooperating on this, and those who always had been in the fight found themselves with new allies.  
And yet he couldn't get over the thought of failure, and what for? The inability to make sure none of this happened in the first place? The fact that even without being there, those people were still destroying Doyle, and there was nothing anyone could do about that?  
Of course, while the guys had been living at the Hyperion, Angel had done his best, and although Doyle had been a whole lot more polite than last time, it was a relief for all involved when they moved into a small flat above Caritas. The Host had been very helpful, but then there was a fair amount of friendship involved.  
At the moment, though, Wesley and Doyle were out catching sun, just like Gunn and Cordelia. Wesley had promised to show up later, but at the moment Angel was alone, and he wasn't feeling as pleased as he thought he should. Instead there was something resembling pouting as he opened the envelopes one by one. Most of them were typed. When Cordy was around she always opened the handwritten ones first, since they were more likely to offer money than demand it. Angel just opened them as they came along. And so it took a few bills until he reached the small envelope with his name and address scribbled in a large, round hand. Opening it, he found another scribbled note, and a folder. All the note said was, *Thought you might be interested. I've deserted the job, so you haven't heard from me. The Pythia.*   
Funny, he had thought it wasn't possible to stop being a Pythia once you had begun. Maybe that was why it was so vital that he hadn't heard from her. Funny that she wrote now, when there had been no sign from her during these past months. Putting the note aside he looked at the folder, a bright coloured thing with the words Shadow Lane on the front. He opened it and started reading.  
*It can be very difficult even for a so-called normal human to recover from substance abuse. For an underworldly being, the excuses are so many more, and we know of all of them. You have come a long way just by reading this and admitting that the problem exists. The average 12 step program is made by humans for humans, and may even cause extra stress for you as you have to hide your unusual abilities or features. At Shadow Lane you can share the journey with staff and patients who have had similar experiences as they help you to live free of alcohol and other substances one day at a time.  
Although fundamentally quite like clinics such as Betty Ford, we adapt our treatment to beings of different species, starting with a thorough individual assessment...*  
Angel kept reading, dazed by the information on a place he'd never even imagined existed. Bless that girl's clairvoyant little soul! What he needed now was for Doyle to agree to all of this. That could be difficult enough, and Angel knew better than to try it himself. But Wesley would probably drop in soon, and judging by his demeanour lately, this was just what he had been looking for as well.  
  
**********  
  
Wesley stroked Doyle's arm thoughtfully, moving in circles to touch the tiny hairs. They were lying together in Wesley's old creaky bed, taken to their new apartment by Gunn, who hadn't minded playing burglar to clean out the old one. It was a good place, and they were making themselves comfortable, but at the moment, Wesley was decidedly *un*comfortable. Like Angel, he had been thrilled to hear about Shadow Lane. But to get Doyle to agree... No words came to mind that would guarantee a good reaction.  
What's the matter? Doyle leaned forward and kissed his neck. His eyes glittered. Wesley flinched as if accused.  
What makes you think anything is the matter?  
You've been playing with my arm for twenty minutes now. Usually you move a little bit faster than that.  
There was no lying to this man -- or if there was, it took a bigger crook to Wesley to do it. I'm worried about you.  
Doyle stiffened. Wrong word, oh wrong word. I can take care of myself.  
I know you can. But you could have died before. I thought you were going to die.  
The pleading was unworthy but honest, and Doyle shifted uneasily. It was a stupid mistake, but it's not like I'm going to do it again. He put an arm around Wesley's shoulder, but Wesley shrugged it off. What? What is it you want from me?  
I want you to quit. All of it, the drinking too.  
Oh, come on. The glitter had not yet entirely disappeared from Doyle's eyes. I'm half Irish, half demon. I can handle it, Wes.  
I don't care if you can handle it. I don't want to find you unconscious again -- or dead, for that matter. He sat up straight in agitation, unsure how to continue. There's this place that Angel heard of... for demons and other beings with alcohol problems...  
Doyle sat up straight too, and he certainly wasn't amused anymore. I'm not going to stand up in some room saying 'hello, I'm Doyle, and I'm a demon alcoholic' if that's what you think.  
It seems like a good place. There will be people there to help. Interdisciplinary teams, it said...  
Why, thank you, I've had quite enough of interdisciplinary teams.  
Don't be such a bloody child! Wesley shouted, leaving the bed. This isn't just about you. It hurts me to see you hurting yourself. The hallucinations are bad enough...  
Oh, I wasn't aware you were the one having to live through them. Doyle's eyes had narrowed and his hands were curled up into fists. You have a lot of nerve, you know that? Just because we sleep together it doesn't mean you own me. Sure, you're a good shag, but I could go out and pick up any man or woman...  
Then why don't you? I'm not stopping you. Go get someone new, if you can find anyone who'd have you. They were standing opposite each other now, only half dressed, and with a calm that only rage can give, Wesley said the next word:   
Doyle grabbed his shirt and headed for the door. Go to hell, he muttered, and then he was gone, his angry steps fading down the stairs. Wesley sank back onto the bed, shaking with anger, loss and a strange satisfaction. He had never lost control this badly. It frightened him that it felt so good.  
He waited up an hour or so, but it was already late, and Doyle obviously wasn't planning on coming back any time soon. Most likely he was downstairs drinking, although it wasn't completely unthinkable that he would be working instead, or as well. After the accident, Wesley had lost track of Doyle's already irregular schedule, and he knew better than to assume anything when it came to Doyle. Maybe he wasn't drinking at all. Maybe he just wanted to be alone. He certainly had proven he didn't want to be with Wesley.  
So, what now? Ugly things had been said, not so easy to forgive and forget. It was quite possible Doyle never intended to come back again. But even if he did show up later, ready to start anew, that really wouldn't change anything. Wesley wanted Doyle as much as he wanted to live, but he had been telling the truth before. He couldn't take any more of this -- *wouldn't* take any more of this. If he gave in to Doyle he was no better than your average doormat and deserved to be treated like one.  
Falling asleep was difficult when there was no one lying across him, no mutterings and kickings. Wesley tossed and turned, trying to find a position that wouldn't remind him of the lack. It was funny, really. Usually he lay still as a stone, falling asleep instantly. And even when he had nightmares -- and obviously he had his share of those -- they were never as physical as Doyle's. Most of the time he would just wake up in a cold sweat and with a pounding heart, but as silent and still as ever. Now it was as if he was trying to take over Doyle's behaviour to fill the void.  
He hadn't even realized he was sleeping until he woke up with the awareness of a heavy weight settling next to him, accompanied by the smell of whiskey. At first he snuggled closer to the slender arms that rested around him, but as soon as he had woken up properly his happiness was replaced with anger. So Doyle *had* been getting himself drunk, and now he just expected Wesley to be fine with that, no questions asked. Hardly. Reaching for his glasses, Wesley released himself from the embrace and left the bed.  
Where are you going? Doyle's voice was sleepy, and he was obviously more than half drunk.  
You said something about Hell, Wesley replied, taking his pillow as well as the folded-up bedspread. If Doyle thought they'd be sleeping in the same bed tonight, he was sorely mistaken.  
Doyle chuckled a little and rolled over. With your reputation? They'd never let you in.  
Wesley was so angry he couldn't possibly have come up with a good come-back to that even if he had wanted to, which he didn't, particularly. Instead he just left for the living room, stopping for a second in the doorway. He wanted to say something right, that would make it all better and stop Doyle acting like this.  
We'll talk about this when you've sobered up.  
Oh right, that was it, of course. Wesley sighed in frustration as he lay down on the sofa. He had sounded like his bleeding parents.  
  
**********  
  
The sun was shining in his eyes, and Doyle was in the kitchen talking out loud. Wesley turned around and almost fell off the sofa. Of course nobody else was in the kitchen, so if Doyle was still talking... Wesley glanced up through the morning light and saw Doyle sitting cross-legged on the kitchen table with Wesley's cell phone in hand. Ah yes. If Doyle was still talking, it meant spending more of Wesley's money on what appeared to be a rather long conversation.  
A rather long *long-distance* conversation, he realized when it dawned on him who Doyle was actually talking to. Well, if Doyle's mother was to play priest to her son's confessions again, money was probably a secondary issue. Although this time, it seemed Maureen Doyle was doing a lot more than patient listening.  
Don't you think I know that? Doyle's voice was filled with the familiar desperate humour that was so appealing. Four times and still kicking is more than luck, the way I see it... *Yes*, mum... Well, it's not like 'destiny' is my favourite word right now... The bare thought of maybe another century with all that in my head... Yeah, but he won't be around forever... What? Oh yes, he's awake alright.  
Doyle turned his head and gave a lopsided grin to Wesley, who was by now sitting up in the sofa, unsuccessful in his attempts to politely avoid listening in. Wesley immediately frowned, determined not to give in to that smile. With a deep sigh, Doyle untangled his legs and walked into the living room, handing Wesley the cell phone. Mum wants to talk to you.  
Wesley's disapproval was immediately replaced with panic. What? I couldn't possibly...  
She speaks English, you know. Not your posh English, but I'm sure you'll understand each other. Doyle nodded at the cell phone again, and Wesley took it up as if it was a bomb ready to explode.  
He took a deep breath. This is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce speaking.  
Hello, Wesley. He had expected her to sound like a female version of Doyle, but instead he got a husky, no-nonsense kind of voice, and although her accent was Irish it wasn't quite the same as her son's. I'm Maureen Doyle.  
There was an extended pause when neither of them knew what to say. Wesley's heart pounded so loud he was sure she could hear it on the other side of the Atlantic. What did she want with him?  
So you're the one Frankie is with these days.  
Yes, Mrs. Doyle.  
That's good. I'm glad he's with someone, he's no good at being alone. Never has been. Frankie says you want him to stop drinking?  
Did she mind that? Maybe she thought it was none of his business. Yes, Mrs. Doyle.  
I hope you make it. By the sound of it, he might just care enough about you to give it a try. It's more difficult for him. A touch of concern.  
Angel found this place that accepts demons... Wesley stopped short. I mean...  
It's quite alright, Wesley, I know what he is. And for the first time he could hear a bit of Doyle in her, in that desperate humour that showed up.  
Yes, Mrs. Doyle.  
Another pause, this time shorter. Would you say it's serious, what you two have?  
That wasn't what he expected, and he didn't know what to say. Yes, I... Quite serious, yes.  
Then for Pete's sake, stop calling me Mrs. Doyle. It's Maureen.  
Yes... Maureen.  
That's a lad. Goodbye now, Wesley. I'd like to meet you some time.  
I'd like to meet you too, Wesley whispered, letting the phone sink down before he remembered to turn it off. He looked at Doyle.   
Quite something, Doyle suggested, sitting down next to him on the sofa. I know. I'm sobered up now, can we talk?  
Wesley nodded numbly, not sure what they were going to talk about. Maureen had just, to all intents and purposes, given them her blessing. How could he possibly break up with Doyle after that? I'm sorry about what I said last night. Some of it, anyway.  
Yeah, same here. Some of it. Doyle drummed his fingers against the armrest. It's not that I don't agree with you... in theory. I drink too much. Everyone does, on the street. He silenced, and Wesley said nothing either, knowing that this was not the time for well-thought out arguments.  
Three times after my real death I've been on my way there. Every time I was pushed back. And sometimes I want to go so badly, especially when it starts to whisper in here. He tapped his temple. And I don't know if it's real or not, if it really hurts this much... and now I find out it's one hundred and fifty years. He looked up at Wesley. I looked up the expected length of life for a Brachen. One hundred and fifty years of *this*.  
It may be shorter for you, Wesley said in a low voice, even though he knew it was no comfort. Since you're a half-breed.  
There's really just two things that help. Drinking is one of them. The other is you. Sex with you, especially.  
Wesley looked up, entwining his fingers with Doyle's. So depend on me.  
I can't. Don't you understand, that's exactly what I *can't* do. Anything could happen. It's not exactly a safe life we're leading. I don't want to lose you, but I can't help thinking the drinks will always be there. And if I don't have that, and I don't have you, then I'm all alone. And I'm no good at being alone.  
She said, Wesley replied, thinking about it. But... you know... you're not alone. Your mother is there for you. Angel... Cordelia and Gunn. They do care.  
It's not the same.  
No. It's not. And there may be times when there's no one at all. I know how frightening that is, believe me. But I happen to think you're strong enough to handle it.  
Then you think more of me than I do, Doyle replied dryly. Wesley punched him slightly.  
That's what friends are for.  
Friends, huh? Doyle moved in a little closer. Would friends do what I...  
Wesley shook his head in determination. We're not having sex now.  
Why on earth not?  
I want a promise from you.  
Doyle sighed. I promise to try. I promise to go to the place Angel heard of... where I will be all alone... He gave a humourous grimace, but there was sincerity under it. Although said in joking tones, the promise was real, and Wesley knew it.  
They do allow visitors, you know. In fact, they encourage it.  
Doyle stilled. Could we have sex, too?  
Well, it didn't say specifically...  
Oh yes, we'll have sex, Doyle determined. Shagging makes the world go around...  
  
**********  
  
The house looked a little misplaced in the middle of the Mojave desert. For one thing, it must have been really hard to grow that nice little garden. The tinted, unpolished windows were really more churchlike than anything else, but they looked remarkably good even fitted into a large three-storey villa. All in all, it was an image that could have fitted into a nice G-rated movie about perky little girls with braids, just surrounded by a desert.  
I get a strange Wizard of Oz feeling, Doyle mumbled. Is that a pentagram on the door?  
So it is, Wesley said with a fascinated smile. All this rural charm, yet there was a reason the windows were tinted. Non-humans tended to be rather cautious when it came to things like public view. Located like this, it wasn't really very public, but you never knew when tourists could happen to pass by.  
It's... nice, Doyle admitted. A little too nice. You don't think they'd make us watch Bambi or anything? Because... you know... I might start cheering when they kill his mother.  
Wesley gave him a friendly push in the back. Don't be such a coward.  
Doyle whimpered a little in jest, but proceeded forward, opening the iron gate, and Wesley followed after him, looking around. Those flowers couldn't possibly grow in Eastern California. Interesting. So they had at least one witch with green fingers around here.  
You know, if they curse me or anything... Doyle started as they came closer to the door, and Wesley smacked him on the head lightly.  
The door opened and a chubby brunette stepped out. Her blouse looked like a painter had used it to wipe his brushes, and she had earrings the size of hula-hoops, but she also had a very nice smile and hurried forward to greet them.  
Hello Wesley, hello Doyle, she said, giving them both warm handshakes. I'm Mary, and I'm a patient here. If you come with me, I'll show you around.  
What sort of patient exactly? Doyle asked, watching her clothes. She smiled as if what he had said wasn't rude at all.  
LSD and cannabis mostly. But I understand you can get that sort of effect even drug-free. Lucky you.  
Wesley looked up in the sky, pretending not to be smiling as they went inside. He was immediately yanked back by the firm grip Doyle had on his sleeve.  
I'm going to *die* in here! Doyle whispered.  
No, you won't. You'll live long and prosper, and after you get out we'll take a trip to Ireland and meet your mother.  
Doyle watched him intently, and then his eyes shifted to Mary, as she led them to some stairs and began to ascend ahead of them. He tilted his head.   
She looked down. Your room is up here.  
Giving Wesley a rather desperate kiss, Doyle finally let go, and then with a determined nod followed the girl upstairs, Wesley following close behind.   
  
**********  
  
THE END  



End file.
